THE  CHIEF  AMERICAN 
PROSE  WRITERS 


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THE  CHIEF 
AMERICAN   PROSE  WRITERS 

BY 

FRANKLIN,  IRVING,  COOPER,  POE 

HAWTHORNE,  EiMERSON,  THOREAU 

LOWELL  AND  HOLMES 

EDITED  BY 

NORMAN    FOERSTER 

UNIVERSITY    OF    NORTH    CAROLINA 


BOSTON  NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Cbe  Kit)er6ilie  {Jresg  CambriUffe 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,   BY  NORMAN  FOKRSTER 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


#%  All  rights  on  selections  in  this  volume  from  Hawthorne,  Emerson,  Thoreau, 
Lowell,  and  Holmes  are  reserved  by  Houghton  MiflBin  Company  who  are  the  pro- 
prietors, either  in  their  own  right  or  as  agents  for  the  authors,  of  the  works  repre- 
sented. 


Wat  Beiibenstbe  l&ctM 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .   S   .  A 


PREFACE 

The  nine  writers  represented  in  this  volume  have  become, 
by  general  consent,  the  American  prose  classics.  Others,  such 
as  Brockden  Brown,  Bret  Harte,  Whitman,  Prescott,  Mark 
Twain,  and  Mr.  Howells,  to  name  but  a  few  among  many  who 
have  achieved  high  distinction,  are  not  far  below  the  unques- 
tioned nine;  perhaps  some  of  them  will,  as  time  goes  on,  dis- 
place certain  of  the  elect.  Yet,  if  all  of  these  candidates  had 
been  accepted,  this  collection  of  prose  might  not  have  deserved 
the  word  "Chief"  in  its  title;  and  if  some  had  been  accepted 
and  others  rejected,  I  could  hardly  have  been  other  than 
arbitrary  and  tentative.  As  it  stands,  however,  the  book  may 
pretend  to  a  certain  finahty. 

My  first  object  has  been  to  bring  together  in  one  volume  lib- 
eral illustrations  of  the  best  work  of  these  nine  American  prose 
classics. 

My  second  object  has  been  to  bring  together  sufficient 
examples  of  the  characteristic  work  of  these  authors  to  give  in 
each  case  a  well-rounded  view. 

My  third  object  has  been  to  bring  together  important  essays, 
letters,  etc.,  that  are  at  present  altogether  or  virtually  inacces- 
sible in  textbooks;  instances  are  Emerson's  "Divinity  School 
Address,"  Thoreau's  "Journal"  and  "Life  Without  Principle," 
and  Lowell's  "Letters"  and  "Dante."  The  thirty-eight  selec- 
tions that  constitute  the  book  represent  a  score  or  more  of 
separate  volumes. 

All  of  the  selections,  with  the  exception  of  haK  a  dozen,  are 
unabridged.  Of  the  exceptions, 'two  —  FrankUn's  Autobiog- 
raphy and  Holmes's  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table  —  are 
abridged  at  one  end  only,  and  a  third,  the  chapters  from  The 
Last  of  the  Mohicans,  is  an  engrossing  episode  that  loses  Httle 
when  read  in  isolation.  It  is  assumed,  however,  that  the  in- 
structor will  prefer  to  assign  all  of  this  nove^j  using  the  selec- 
tion for  detailed  discussion  in  the  classroom. 

The  notes  were  prepared  in  the  expectation  that  the  student 

395544 


iv  PREFACE 

would  have  at  hand  a  copy  of  either  Webster's  Secondary-School 
Dictionary  or  the  Desk  Standard  Dictionary.  In  general,  I  have 
explained  only  allusions  left  unexplained  in  these  admirable 
dictionaries. 

^Norman  Foerster 

University  of  North  Carolina 
May  31,  1916 


CONTENTS 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Autobiography i 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 

Peter  the  Headstrong 38 

The  Author's  Account  of  Himself 54 

Westminster  Abbey 56 

Christmas  Eve 66 

Rip  Van  Winkle 77 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

The  Chase 95 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

—The  Poetic  Principle 131 

—-Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales 152 

Shadow 159 

—  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death 162 

—  The  Cask  of  Amontillado 168 

—  The  Purloined  Letter 174 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

The  Wedding  Knell 193 

—  The  Maypole  of  Merry  Mount 201 

The  Old  Manse 212 

-'Young  Goodman  Brown 238 

Roger  Malvin's  Burial 251 

Rappaccini's  Daughter 270 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Nature 301 

The  American  Scholar 311 

Divinity  School  Address 329 

The  Over-Soul    % 347 

Self-Reliance 363 

Compensation 387 

Love 405 

Napoleonj  Or,  The  Man  of  the  World 416 


vi  CONTENTS 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

Where  I  Lived,  and  What  I  Lived  For     .      ...      .      .435 

Solitude 449 

Conclusion  of  Walden 457 

Life  Without  Principle 468 

Extracts  from  the  Journal 487 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Letters 495 

Emerson  the  Lecturer 506 

Thoreau .  514 

Dante 528 

Democracy 548 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table 569 

READING  LISTS 621 


I* 


CHIEF  AMERICAN   PROSE  WRITERS 


THE   CHIEF 
AMERICAN   PROSE   WRITERS 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY! 

Dear  Son:  I  have  ever  had  pleasure  in  obtaining  any  little 
anecdotes  of  my  ancestors.  You  may  remember  the  inquiries 
I  made  among  the  remains  of  my  relations  when  you  were  with 
me  in  England,  and  the  journey  I  undertook  for  that  purpose. 
Imagining  it  may  be  equally  agreeable  to  you  to  know  the  cir- 
cumstances of  my  life,  many  of  which  you  are  yet  unacquainted 
with,  and  expecting  the  enjoyment  of  a  week's  uninterrupted 
leisure  in  my  present  country  retirement,  I  sit  down  to  write 
them  for  you.  To  which  I  have  besides  some  other  induce- 
ments. Haying  emerged  from  the  poverty  and  obscurity  in 
which  I  was  bom  and  bred  to  a  state  of  affluence  and  some 
degree  of  reputation  in  the  world,  and  having  gone  so  far 
through  life  with  a  considerable  share  of  felicity,  the  conducing 
means  I  made  use  of,  which  with  the  blessing  of  God  so  well 
succeeded,  my  posterity  may  like  to  know,  as  they  may  find 
some  of  them  suitable  to  their  own  situations,  and  therefore 
fit  to  be  imitated. 

That  felicity,  when  I  reflected  on  it,  has  induced  me  some- 
times to  say,  that  were  it  offered  to  my  choice,  I  should  have 
no  objection  to  a  repetition  of  the  same  life  from  its  beginning, 
only  asking  the  advantages  authors  have  in  a  second  edition  to 
correct  some  faults  of  the  first.  So  I  might,  besides  correcting 

*  The  excerpt  here  printed  comprises  approximately  the  first  half  of  the  first 
section  of  the  Autobiography  —  the  section  that  Franklin  wrote  in  1 771  while  in 
England  on  a  political  mission.  Unlike  the  rest  of  the  book,  the  first  part  was 
intended  mainly,  if  not  solely,  for  the  pleasure  and  use  of  his  family,  rather  than 
for  a  curious  public.  His  son,  William  Franklin,  whom  he  specifically  addresses, 
had  been  with  him  in  England,  as  the  second  sentence  indicates,  but  was  now  in 
America  as  Governor  of  New  Jersey.  In  the  Revolutionary  War,  he  was  a  roy- 
alist, and  as  such  an  enemy  of  his  father.  In  1784,  however,  a  partial  reconcilia- 
tion took  place. 


2         ;  ^^  ^  "' ^  ^BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

the  fcaUlts;  change  some  sinister  accidents  and  events  of  it  for 
others  more  favorable.  But  though  this  were  denied,  I  should 
still  accept  the  offer.  Since  such  a  repetition  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected, the  next  thing  most  like  living  one's  life  over  again 
seems  to  be  a  recollection  of  that  life,  and  to  make  that  recollec- 
tion as  durable  as  possible  by  putting  it  down  in  writing. 

Hereby,  too,  I  shall  indulge  the  inclination  so  natural  in  old 
men,  to  be  talking  of  themselves  and  their  own  past  actions; 
and  I  shall  indulge  it  without  being  tiresome  to  others,  who, 
through  respect  to  age,  might  conceive  themselves  obliged  to 
give  me  a  hearing,  since  this  may  be  read  or  not  as  any  one 
pleases.  And,  lastly  (I  may  as  well  confess  it,  since  my  denial 
of  it  will  be  believed  by  nobody),  perhaps  I  shall  a  good  deal 
gratify  my  own  vanity.  Indeed,  I  scarce  ever  heard  or  saw  the 
introductory  words,  ^^  Without  vanity  I  may  say,^^  etc.,  but  some 
vain  thing  immediately  followed.  Most  people  dislike  vanity 
in  others,  whatever  share  they  have  of  it  themselves;  but  I  give 
it  fair  quarter  wherever  I  meet  with  it,  being  persuaded  that  it 
is  often  productive  of  good  to  the  possessor,  and  to  others  that 
are  within  his  sphere  of  action;  and  therefore,  in  many  cases, 
it  would  not  be  altogether  absurd  if  a  man  were  to  thank  God 
for  his  vanity  among  the  other  comforts  of  life. 

And  now  I  speak  of  thanking  God,  I  desire  with  all  humility 
to  acknowledge  that  I  owe  the  mentioned  happiness  of  my  past 
life  to  his  kind  providence,  which  led  me  to  the  means  I  used 
and  gave  them  success.  My  belief  of  this  induces  me  to  hope, 
though  I  must  not  presume,  that  the  same  goodness  will  still 
be  exercised  toward  me,  in  continuing  that  happiness,  or  ena- 
bling me  to  bear  a  fatal  reverse,  which  I  may  experience  as 
others  have  done;  the  complexion  of  my  future  fortune  being 
known  to  Him  only  in  whose  power  it  is  to  bless  to  us  even  our 
afflictions. 

The  notes  one  of  my  uncles  (who  had  the  same  kind  of  curi- 
osity in  collecting  family  anecdotes)  once  put  into  my  hands 
furnished  me  with  several  particulars  relating  to  our  ancestors. 
From  these  notes  I  learned  that  the  family  had  lived  in  the 
same  village,  Ecton,  in  Northamptonshire,  for  three  hundred 
years,  and  how  much  longer  he  knew  not  (perhaps  from  the 
time  when  the  name  of  FrankHn,  that  before  was  the  name  of 
an  order  of  people,  was  assumed  by  them  as  a  surname  when 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  3 

others  took  surnames  all  over  the  kingdom),  on  a  freehold  of 
about  thirty  acres,  aided  by  the  smith's  business,  which  had 
continued  in  the  family  till  his  time,  the  eldest  son  being 
always  bred  to  that  business;  a  custom  which  he  and  my  father 
followed  as  to  their  eldest  sons.  When  I  searched  the  registers 
at  Ecton,  I  found  an  account  of  their  births,  marriages,  and 
burials  from  the  year  1555  only,  there  being  no  registers  kept 
in  that  parish  at  any  time  preceding.  By  that  register  I  per- 
ceived that  I  was  the  youngest  son  of  the  youngest  son  for  five 
generations  back.  My  grandfather,  Thomas,  who  was  bom  in 
1598,  lived  at  Ecton  till  he  grew  too  old  to  follow  business 
longer,  when  he  went  to  live  with  his  son  John,  a  dyer  at  Ban- 
bury, in  Oxfordshire,  with  whom  my  father  served  an  appren- 
ticeship. There  my  grandfather  died  and  lies  buried.  We  saw 
his  gravestone  in  1758.  His  eldest  son  Thomas  Hved  in  the 
house  at  Ecton,  and  left  it  with  the  land  to  his  only  child,  a 
daughter,  who,  with  her  husband,  one  Fisher,  of  Welling- 
borough, sold  it  to  Mr.  Isted,  now  lord  of  the  manor  there. 
My  grandfather  had  four  sons  that  grew  up,  viz.:  Thomas, 
John,  Benjamin,  and  Josiah.  I  will  give  you  what  account  I 
can  of  them,  at  this  distance  from  my  papers,  and  if  these  are 
not  lost  in  my  absence,  you  will  among  them  find  many  more 
particulars. 

Thomas  was  bred  a  smith  under  his  father;  but,  being  in- 
genious, and  encouraged  in  learning  (as  all  my  brothers  were) 
by  an  Esquire  Palmer,  then  the  principal  gentleman  in  that 
parish,  he  qualified  himself  for  the  business  of  scrivener;  be- 
came a  considerable  man  in  the  county;  was  a  chief  mover  of 
all  public-spirited  undertakings  for  the  county  or  town  of 
Northampton,  and  his  own  village,  of  which  many  instances 
were  related  of  him;  and  much  taken  notice  of  and  patronized 
by  the  then  Lord  Halifax.  He  died  in  1702,  January  6,  old 
style,  just  four  years  to  a  day  before  I  was  born.  The  account 
we  received  of  his  life  and  character  from  some  old  people  at 
Ecton,  I  remember,  struck  you  as  something  extraordinary, 
from  its  similarity  to  what  you  knew  of  mine.  "Had  he  died  on 
the  same  day,"  you  said,  "one  might  have  supposed  a  trans- 
migration.'* 

John  was  bred  a  dyer,  I  believe  of  woolens.  Benjamin  was 
bred  a  silk  dyer,  serving  an  apprenticeship  at  London.  He  was 


4  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

an  ingenious  man.  I  remember  him  well,  for  when  I  was  a  boy 
he  came  over  to  my  father  in  Boston,  and  Uved  in  the  house 
with  us  some  years.  He  Hved  to  a  great  age.  His  grandson, 
Samuel  Franklin,  now  lives  in  Boston.  He  left  behind  him  two 
quarto  volumes,  MS.,  of  his  own  poetry,  consisting  of  little 
occasional  pieces  addressed  to  his  friends  and  relations,  of 
which  the  following,  sent  to  me,  is  a  specimen.  ^  He  had  formed 
a  short-hand  of  his  own,  which  he  taught  me,  but,  never  prac- 
ticing it,  I  have  now  forgot  it.  I  was  named  after  this  uncle, 
there  being  a  particular  affection  between  him  and  my  father. 
He  was  very  pious,  a  great  attender  of  sermons  of  the  best 
preachers,  which  he  took  down  in  his  short-hand,  and  had  with 
him  many  volumes  of  them.  He  was  also  much  of  a  politician; 
too  much,  perhaps,  for  his  station.  There  fell  lately  into  my 
hands,  in  London,  a  collection  he  had  made  of  all  the  principal 
pamphlets  relating  to  public  affairs,  from  1641  to  171 7;  many 
of  the  volumes  are  wanting  as  appears  by  the  numbering,  but 
there  still  remain  eight  volumes  in  folio,  and  twenty-four  in 
quarto  and  in  octavo.  A  dealer  in  old  books  met  with  them, 
and  knowing  me  by  my  sometimes  buying  of  him,  he  brought 
them  to  me.  It  seems  my  uncle  must  have  left  them  here  when 
he  went  to  America,  which  was  above  fifty  years  since.  There 
are  many  of  his  notes  in  the  margins. 

This  obscure  family  of  ours  was  early  in  the  Reformation, 
and  continued  Protestants  through  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary, 
when  they  were  sometimes  in  danger  of  trouble  on  account  of 
their  zeal  against  popery.  They  had  got  an  English  Bible,  and 
to  conceal  and  secure  it,  it  was  fastened  open  with  tapes  under 
and  within  the  cover  of  a  joint-stool.  When  my  great-great- 
grandfather read  it  to  his  family,  he  turned  up  the  joint-stool 
upon  his  knees,  turning  over  the  leaves  then  under  the  tapes. 
One  of  the  children  stood  at  the  door  to  give  notice  if  he  saw 
the  apparitor  coming,  who  was  an  officer  of  the  spiritual  court. 
In  that  case  the  stool  was  turned  down  again  upon  its  feet, 
when  the  Bible  remained  concealed  under  it  as  before.  This 
anecdote  I  had  from  my  uncle  Benjamin.  The  family  continued 
all  of  the  Church  of  England  till  about  the  end  of  Charles  the 
Second's  reign,  when  some  of  the  ministers  that  had  been  outed 
for  non-conformity  holding  conventicles  in  Northamptonshire, 
1  Lacking  in  the  MS. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  5 

Benjamin  and  Josiah  adhered  to  them,  and  so  continued  all  their 
lives :  the  rest  of  the  family  remained  with  the  Episcopal  Church. 
Josiah,  my  father,  married  young,  and  carried  his  wife  with 
three  children  into  New  England,  about  1682.  The  conventicles 
having  been  forbidden  by  law,  and  frequently  disturbed,  in- 
duced some  considerable  men  of  his  acquaintance  to  remove  to 
that  country,  and  he  was  prevailed  with  to  accompany  them 
thither,  where  they  expected  to  enjoy  their  mode  of  rehgion 
with  freedom.  By  the  same  wife  he  had  four  children  more  bom 
there,  and  by  a  second  wife  ten  more,  in  all  seventeen;  of  which 
I  remember  thirteen  sitting  at  one  time  at  his  table,  who  all 
grew  up  to  be  men  and  women,  and  married ;  I  was  the  young- 
est son,  and  the  youngest  child  but  two,  and  was  bom  in  Boston, 
New  England.  My  mother,  the  second  wife,  was  Abiah 
Folger,  daughter  of  Peter  Folger,  one  of  the  first  settlers  of 
New  England,  of  whom  honorable  mention  is  made  by  Cotton 
Mather,  in  his  church  history  of  that  country,  entitled  Mag- 
nalia  Christi  Americana,  as  "a  godly,  learned  Englishman/^  if  I 
remember  the  words  rightly.  I  have  heard  that  he  wrote  sun- 
dry small  occasional  pieces,  but  only  one  of  them  was  printed, 
which  I  saw  now  many  years  since.  It  was  written  in  1675,  in 
the  homespun  verse  of  that  time  and  people,  and  addressed  to 
those  then  concerned  in  the  government  there.  It  was  in  favor 
of  liberty  of  conscience,  and  in  behalf  of  the  Baptists*  Quakers, 
and  other  sectaries  that  had  been  under  persecution,  ascribing 
the  Indian  wars,  and  other  distresses  that  had  befallen  the 
country,  to  that  persecution,  as  so  many  judgments  of  God  to 
punish  so  heinous  an  offense,  and  exhorting  a  repeal  of  those 
uncharitable  laws.  The  whole  appeared  to  me  as  written  with 
a  good  deal  of  decent  plainness  and  manly  freedom.  The  six 
concluding  lines  I  remember,  though  I  have  forgotten  the  two 
first  of  the  stanza;  but  the  purport  of  them  was,  that  his  cen- 
sures proceeded  from  good-will,  and  therefore  he  would  be 
known  to  be  the  author. 

"Because  to  be  a  libeller  (says  he) 

I  hate  it  with  my  heart; 
From  Sherburne  ^  town,  where  now  I  dwell 

My  name  I  do  put  here; 
Without  offense  your  real  friend, 

It  is  Peter  Folgier." 

^  Nantucket,  Massachusetts. 


6  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

My  elder  brothers  were  all  put  apprentices  to  different 
trades.  I  was  put  to  the  grammar-school  at  eight  years  of  age, 
my  father  intending  to  devote  me,  as  the  tithe  of  his  sons,  to 
the  service  of  the  Church.  My  early  readiness  in  learning  to 
read  (which  must  have  been  very  early,  as  I  do  not  remember 
when  I  could  not  read),  and  the  opinion  of  all  his  friends  that  I 
should  certainly  make  a  good  scholar,  encouraged  him  in  this 
purpose  of  his.  My  uncle  Benjamin,  too,  approved  of  it,  and 
proposed  to  give  me  all  his  short-hand  volumes  of  sermons,  I 
suppose,  as  a  stock  to  set  up  with,  if  I  would  learn  his  character. 
I  continued,  however,  at  the  grammar-school ^  not  quite  one 
year,  though  in  that  time  I  had  risen  gradually  from  the  middle 
of  the  class  of  that  year  to  be  the  head  of  it,  and  farther  was 
removed  into  the  next  class  above  it,  in  order  to  go  with  that 
into  the  third  at  the  end  of  the  year.  But  my  father,  in  the 
mean  time,  from  a  view  of  the  expense  of  a  college  education, 
which  having  so  large  a  family  he  could  not  well  afford,  and 
the  mean  living  many  so  educated  were  afterwards  able  to  ob- 
tain, —  reasons  that  he  gave  to  his  friends  in  my  hearing,  — 
altered  his  first  intention,  took  me  from  the  grammar-school, 
and  sent  me  to  a  school  for  writing  and  arithmetic,  kept  by  a 
then  famous  man,  Mr.  George  Brownell,  very  successful  in  his 
profession  generally,  and  that  by  mild,  encouraging  methods. 
Under  him  I  acquired  fair  writing  pretty  soon,  but  I  failed  in 
the  arithmetic,  and  made  no  progress  in  it.  At  ten  years  old  I 
was  taken  home  to  assist  my  father  in  his  business,  which  was 
that  of  a  tallow-chandler  and  soap-boiler;  a  business  he  was 
not  bred  to,  but  had  assumed  on  his  arrival  in  New  England, 
and  on  finding  his  dyeing  trade  would  not  maintain  his  family, 
being  in  little  request.  Accordingly,  I  was  employed  in  cutting 
wick  for  the  candles,  filling  the  dipping  mould  and  the  moulds 
for  cast  candles,  attending  the  shop,  going  of  errands,  etc. 

I  disliked  the  trade,  and  had  a  strong  inclination  for  the  sea, 
but  my  father  declared  against  it;  however,  living  near  the 
water,  I  was  much  in  and  about  it,  learnt  early  to  swim  well, 
and  to  manage  boats;  and  when  in  a  boat  or  canoe  with  other 
boys,  I  was  commonly  allowed  to  govern,  especially  in  any 
case  of  difficulty;  and  upon  other  occasions  I  was  generally  a 

1  At  that  time,  a  school  where  Latin  was  taught,  and  as  such  suited  to  the 
needs  of  prospective  college  students. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  7 

leader  among  the  boys,  and  sometimes  led  them  into  scrapes, 
of  which  I  will  mention  one  instance,  as  it  shows  an  early  pro- 
jecting public  spirit,  though  not  then  justly  conducted. 

There  was  a  salt  marsh  that  bounded  part  of  the  mill  pond, 
on  the  edge  of  which,  at  high  water,  we  used  to  stand  to  fish  for 
minnows.  By  much  trampKng,  we  had  made  it  a  mere  quag- 
mire. My  proposal  was  to  build  a  wharf  there  fit  for  us  to 
stand  upon,  and  I  showed  my  comrades  a  large  heap  of  stones, 
which  were  intended  for  a  new  house  near  the  marsh,  and 
which  would  very  well  suit  our  purpose.  Accordingly,  in  the 
evening,  when  the  workmen  were  gone,  I  assembled  a  number 
of  my  playfellows,  and  working  with  them  diligently,  like  so 
many  emmets,  sometimes  two  or  three  to  a  stone,  we  brought 
them  all  away  and  built  our  little  wharf.  The  next  morning 
the  workmen  were  surprised  at  missing  the  stones,  which  were 
found  in  our  wharf.  Inquiry  was  made  after  the  removers;  we 
were  discovered  and  complained  of;  several  of  us  were  corrected 
by  our  fathers;  and,  though  I  pleaded  the  usefulness  of  the 
work,  mine  convinced  me  that  nothing  was  useful  which  was 
not  honest. 

I  think  you  may  like  to  know  something  of  his  person  and 
character.  He  had  an  excellent  constitution  of  body,  was  of 
middle  stature,  but  well  set,  and  very  strong;  he  was  ingenious, 
could  draw  prettily,  was  skilled  a  Httle  in  music,  and  had  a 
clear,  pleasing  voice,  so  that  when  he  played  psalm  tunes  on 
his  violin  and  sung  withal,  as  he  sometimes  did  in  an  evening 
after  the  business  of  the  day  was  over,  it  was  extremely  agree- 
able to  hear.  He  had  a  mechanical  genius,  too,  and,  on  occa- 
sion, was  very  handy  in  the  use  of  other  tradesmen's  tools;  but 
his  great  excellence  lay  in  a  sound  understanding  and  soHd 
judgment  in  prudential  matters,  both  in  private  and  public 
affairs.  In  the  latter,  indeed,  he  was  never  employed,  the  nu- 
merous family  he  had  to  educate  and  the  straitness  of  his  circum- 
stances keeping  him  close  to  his  trade;  but  I  remember  well  his 
being  frequently  visited  by  leading  people,  who  consulted  him 
for  his  opinion  in  affairs  of  the  town  or  of  the  church  he  be- 
longed to,  and  showed  a  good  deal  of  respect  for  his  judgment 
and  advice;  he  was  also  much  consulted  by  private  persons 
about  their  affairs  when  any  difl&culty  occurred,  and  frequently 
chosen  an  arbitrator  between  contending  parties.  At  his  table 


8  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

he  liked  to  have,  as  often  as  he  could,  some  sensible  friend  or 
neighbor  to  converse  with,  and  always  took  care  to  start  some 
ingenious  or  useful  topic  for  discourse,  which  might  tend  to  im- 
prove the  minds  of  his  children.  By  this  means  he  turned  our 
attention  to  what  was  good,  just,  and  prudent  in  the  conduct 
of  life;  and  little  or  no  notice  was  ever  taken  of  what  related  to 
the  victuals  on  the  table,  whether  it  was  well  or  ill  dressed,  in 
or  out  of  season,  of  good  or  bad  flavor,  preferable  or  inferior  to 
this  or  that  other  thing  of  the  kind,  so  that  I  was  brought  up 
in  such  a  perfect  inattention  to  those  matters  as  to  be  quite 
indifferent  what  kind  of  food  was  set  before  me,  and  so  unob- 
servant of  it,  that  to  this  day  if  I  am  asked  I  can  scarce  tell  a 
few  hours  after  dinner  what  I  dined  upon.  This  has  been  a  con- 
venience to  me  in  traveling,  where  my  companions  have  been 
sometimes  very  unhappy  for  want  of  a  suitable  gratification 
of  their  more  delicate,  because  better  instructed,  tastes  and 
appetites. 

My  mother  had  likewise  an  excellent  constitution;  she  suckled 
all  her  ten  children.  I  never  knew  either  my  father  or  mother  to 
have  any  sickness  but  that  of  which  they  died,  he  at  eighty- 
nine,  and  she  at  eighty-five  years  of  age.  They  lie  buried  to- 
gether at  Boston,  where  I  some  years  since  placed  a  marble 
over  their  grave,  with  this  inscription:  — 

JOSIAH  FrANKLEST, 

and 

Abiah  his  wife, 

lie  here  interred. 

They  lived  lovingly  together  in  wedlock 

fifty-five  years. 

Without  an  estate,  or  any  gainful  employment, 

By  constant  labor  and  industry, 

with  God's  blessing, 
They  maintained  a  large  family 

comfortably, 

and  brought  up  thirteen  children 

and  seven  grandchildren 

reputably. 

From  this  instance,  reader, 

Be  encouraged  to  diligence  in  thy  calling, 

And  distrust  not  Providence. 

He  was  a  pious  and  prudent  man; 

She,  a  discreet  and  virtuous  woman. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  9 

Their  youngest  son, 

In  filial  regard  to  their  memory, 

Places  this  stone. 

J.  F.  born  1655,  died  1744,  vEtat  89. 

A.  F.  born  1667,  died  1752, 85. 

By  my  rambling  digressions  I  perceive  myself  to  be  grown 
old.  I  used  to  write  more  methodically.  But  one  does  not 
dress  for  private  company  as  for  a  public  ball.  'T  is  perhaps 
only  negligence. 

To  return:  I  continued  thus  employed  in  my  father's  busi- 
ness for  two  years,  that  is,  till  I  was  twelve  years  old;  and  my 
brother  John,  who  was  bred  to  that  business,  having  left  my 
father,  married,  and  set  up  for  himself  at  Rhode  Island,  there 
was  all  appearance  that  I  was  destined  to  supply  his  place,  and 
become  a  tallow-chandler.  But  my  dislike  to  the  trade  contin- 
uing, my  father  was  under  apprehensions  that  if  he  did  not 
find  one  for  me  more  agreeable,  I  should  break  away  and  get 
to  sea,  as  his  son  Josiah  had  done,  to  his  great  vexation.  He 
therefore  sometimes  took  me  to  walk  with  him,  and  see  joiners, 
bricklayers,  turners,  braziers,  etc.,  at  their  work,  that  he  might 
observ^e  my  inclination,  and  endeavor  to  fix  it  on  some  trade  or 
other  on  land.  It  has  ever  since  been  a  pleasure  to  me  to  see 
good  workmen  handle  their  tools,  and  it  has  been  useful  to  me, 
ha\H[ng  learned  so  much  by  it  as  to  be  able  to  do  little  jobs 
myself  in  my  house  when  a  workman  could  not  readily  be  got, 
and  to  construct  little  machines  for  my  experiments,  while  the 
intention  of  making  the  experiment  was  fresh  and  warm  in  my 
mind.  My  father  at  last  fixed  upon  the  cutler's  trade,  and  my 
uncle  Benjamin's  son  Samuel,  who  was  bred  to  that  business  in 
London,  being  about  that  time  estabhshed  in  Boston,  I  was 
sent  to  be  with  him  some  time  on  liking.  But  his  expecta- 
tions of  a  fee  with  me  displeasing  my  father,  I  was  taken  home 
again. 

From  a  child  I  was  fond  of  reading,  and  all  the  little  money 
that  came  into  my  hands  was  ever  laid  out  lq  books.  Pleased 
with  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  my  first  collection  was  of  John 
Bunyan's  works  in  separate  little  volimies.  I  afterward  sold 
them  to  enable  me  to  buy  R.  Burton's  Historical  Collections; 
they  were  small  chapmen's  books,  and  cheap,  forty  or  fifty  in 
all.    My  father's  little  library  consisted  chiefly  of  books  in 


lO  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

polemic  divinity,  most  of  which  I  read,  and  have  since  often 
regretted  that,  at  a  time  when  I  had  such  a  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge, more  proper  books  had  not  fallen  in  my  way,  since  it  was 
now  resolved  I  should  not  be  a  clergyman.  Plutarch's  Lives 
there  was  in  which  I  read  abundantly,  and  I  still  think  that 
time  spent  to  great  advantage.  There  was  also  a  book  of  De 
Foe's,  called  an  Essay  on  Projects,  and  another  of  Dr.  Mather's,^ 
called  Essays  to  do  Good,  which  perhaps  gave  me  a  turn  of 
thinking  that  had  an  influence  on  some  of  the  principal  future 
events  of  my  life. 

This  bookish  inclination  at  length  determined  my  father  to 
make  me  a  printer,  though  he  had  already  one  son  (James)  of 
that  profession.  In  171 7  my  brother  James  returned  from 
England  with  a  press  and  letters  to  set  up  his  business  in  Boston. 
I  liked  it  much  better  than  that  of  my  father,  but  still  had  a 
hankering  for  the  sea.  To  prevent  the  apprehended  effect  of 
such  an  inclination,  my  father  was  impatient  to  have  me 
bound  to  my  brother.  I  stood  out  some  time,  but  at  last  was 
persuaded,  and  signed  the  indentures  when  I  was  yet  but 
twelve  years  old.  I  was  to  serve  as  an  apprentice  till  I  was 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  only  I  was  to  be  allowed  journeyman's 
wages  during  the  last  year.  In  a  little  time  I  made  great  pro- 
ficiency in  the  business,  and  became  a  useful  hand  to  my 
brother.  I  now  had  access  to  better  books.  An  acquaintance 
with  the  apprentices  of  booksellers  enabled  me  sometimes  to 
borrow  a  small  one,  which  I  was  careful  to  return  soon  and 
clean.  Often  I  sat  up  in  my  room  reading  the  greatest  part  of 
the  night,  when  the  book  was  borrowed  in  the  evening  and  to 
be  returned  early  in  the  morning,  lest  it  should  be  missed  or 
wanted. 

And  after  some  time  an  ingenious  tradesman,  Mr.  Matthew 
Adams,  who  had  a  pretty  collection  of  books,  and  who  fre- 
quented our  printing-house,  took  notice  of  me,  invited  me  to 
his  library,  and  very  kindly  lent  me  such  books  as  I  chose  to 
read.  I  now  took  a  fancy  to  poetry,  and  made  some  little  pieces; 
my  brother,  thinking  it  might  turn  to  account,  encouraged  me, 
and  put  me  on  composing  occasional  ballads.  One  was  called 
The  Lighthouse  Tragedy,  and  contained  an  account  of  the 
drowning  of  Captain  Worthilake,  with  his  two  daughters;  the 
»  Cotton  Mather's. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  ii 

other  was  a  sailor's  song,  on  the  taking  of  Teach  (or  Black- 
beard),  the  pirate.  They  were  wretched  stuff,  in  the  Grub 
Street  ballad  style;  and  when  they  were  printed  he  sent  me 
about  the  town  to  sell  them.  The  first  sold  wonderfully,  the 
event  being  recent,  having  made  a  great  noise.  This  flattered 
my  vanity;  but  my  father  discouraged  me  by  ridiculing  my 
performances,  and  telling  me  verse-makers  were  generally  beg- 
gars. So  I  escaped  being  a  poet,  most  probably  a  very  bad  one; 
but  as  prose  writing  has  been  of  great  use  to  me  in  the  course  of 
my  life,  and  was  a  principal  means  of  my  advancement,  I  shall 
tell  you  how,  in  such  a  situation,  I  acquired  what  little  ability 
I  have  in  that  way. 

There  was  another  bookish  lad  in  the  town,  John  Collins  by 
name,  with  whom  I  was  intimately  acquainted.  We  sometimes 
disputed,  and  very  fond  we  were  of  argument,  and  very  desir- 
ous of  confuting  one  another,  which  disputatious  turn,  by  the 
way,  is  apt  to  become  a  very  bad  habit,  making  people  often 
extremely  disagreeable  in  company  by  the  contradiction  that 
is  necessary  to  bring  it  into  practice;  and  thence,  besides  sour- 
ing and  spoiling  the  conversation,  is  productive  of  disgusts  and 
perhaps  enmities  where  you  may  have  occasion  for  friendship. 
I  had  caught  it  by  reading  my  father's  books  of  dispute  about 
religion.  Persons  of  good  sense,  I  have  since  observed,  seldom 
fall  into  it,  except  lawyers,  university  men,  and  men  of  all  sorts 
that  have  been  bred  at  Edinburgh. 

A  question  was  once,  somehow  or  other,  started  between 
Collins  and  me,  of  the  propriety  of  educating  the  female  sex  in 
learning,  and  their  abilities  for  study.  He  was  of  opinion  that 
it  was  improper,  and  that  they  were  naturally  unequal  to  it. 
I  took  the  contrary  side,  perhaps  a  little  for  dispute's  sake.  He 
was  naturally  more  eloquent,  had  a  ready  plenty  of  words;  and 
sometimes,  as  I  thought,  bore  me  down  more  by  his  fluency 
than  by  the  strength  of  his  reasons.  As  we  parted  without  set- 
tling the  point,  and  were  not  to  see  one  another  again  for  some 
time,  I  sat  down  to  put  my  arguments  in  writing,  which  I 
copied  fair  and  sent  to  him.  He  answered,  and  I  replied.  Three 
or  four  letters  of  a  side  had  passed,  when  my  father  happened 
to  find  my  papers  and  read  them.  Without  entering  into  the 
discussion,  he  took  occasion  to  talk  to  me  about  the  manner 
of  my  writing;  observed  that,  though  I  had  the  advantage  of 


12  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

my  antagonist  in  correct  spelling  and  pointing^  (which  I  owed 
to  the  printing-house),  I  fell  far  short  in  elegance  of  expression, 
in  method,  and  in  perspicuity,  of  which  he  convinced  me  by 
several  instances.  I  saw  the  justice  of  his  remarks,  and  thence 
grew  more  attentive  to  the  manner  in  writing,  and  determined 
to  endeavor  at  improvement. 

About  this  time  I  met  with  an  odd  volume  of  the  Spectator. 
It  was  the  third.  I  had  never  before  seen  any  of  them.  I 
bought  it,  read  it  over  and  over,  and  was  much  delighted  with 
it.  I  thought  the  writing  excellent,  and  wished,  if  possible,  to 
imitate  it.  With  this  view  I  took  some  of  the  papers,  and  mak- 
ing short  hints  of  the  sentiment  in  each  sentence,  laid  them  by 
a  few  days,  and  then,  without  looking  at  the  book,  tried  to  com- 
plete the  papers  again,  by  expressing  each  hinted  sentiment  at 
length,  and  as  fully  as  it  had  been  expressed  before,  in  any  suit- 
able words  that  should  come  to  hand.  Then  I  compared  my 
Spectator  with  the  original,  discovered  some  of  my  faults,  and 
corrected  them.  But  I  found  I  wanted  a  stock  of  words,  or  a 
readiness  in  recollecting  and  using  them,  which  I  thought  I 
should  have  acquired  before  that  time  if  I  had  gone  on  making 
verses;  since  the  continual  occasion  for  words  of  the  same  im- 
port, but  of  different  length,  to  suit  the  measure,  or  of  different 
sound  for  the  rhyme,  would  have  laid  me  under  a  constant 
necessity  of  searching  for  variety,  and  also  have  tended  to  fix 
that  variety  in  my  mind,  and  make  me  master  of  it.  Therefore 
I  took  some  of  the  tales  and  turned  them  into  verse;  and,  after 
a  time,  when  I  had  pretty  well  forgotten  the  prose,  turned  them 
back  again.  I  also  sometimes  jumbled  my  collections  of  hints 
into  confusion,  and  after  some  weeks  endeavored  to  reduce 
them  into  the  best  order,  before  I  began  to  form  the  full  sen- 
tences and  complete  the  paper.  This  was  to  teach  me  method 
in  the  arrangement  of  thoughts.  By  comparing  my  work  after- 
wards with  the  original,  I  discovered  many  faults  and  amended 
them;  but  I  sometimes  had  the  pleasure  of  fancying  that,  in 
certain  particulars  of  small  import,  I  had  been  lucky  enough  to 
improve  the  method  or.  the  language,  and  this  encouraged  me 
to  think  I  might  possibly  in  time  come  to  be  a  tolerable  English 
writer,  of  which  I  was  extremely  ambitious.  My  time  for  these 
exercises  and  for  reading  was  at  night,  after  work,  or  before  it 

^  Punctuation. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  13 

began  in  the  morning,  or  on  Sundays,  when  I  contrived  to  be 
in  the  printing-house  alone,  evading  as  much  as  I  could  the 
common  attendance  on  public  worship  which  my  father  used 
to  exact  of  me  when  I  was  under  his  care,  and  which  indeed  I 
still  thought  a  duty,  though  I  could  not,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
afford  time  to  practice  it. 

WTien  about  sixteen  years  of  age  I  happened  to  meet  with  a 
book,  written  by  one  Try  on,  recommending  a  vegetable  diet. 
I  determined  to  go  into  it.  My  brother,  being  yet  unmarried, 
did  not  keep  house,  but  boarded  himself  and  his  apprentices  in 
another  family.  My  refusing  to  eat  flesh  occasioned  an  incon- 
veniency,  and  I  was  frequently  chid  for  my  singularity.  I 
made  myself  acquainted  with  Tryon's  manner  of  preparing 
some  of  his  dishes,  such  as  boiling  potatoes  or  rice,  making 
hasty  pudding,  and  a  few  others,  and  then  proposed  to  my 
brother  that  if  he  would  give  me,  weekly,  half  the  money  he 
paid  for  my  board,  I  would  board  myself.  He  instantly  agreed 
to  it  and  I  presently  found  that  I  could  save  half  what  he  paid 
me.  This  was  an  additional  fund  for  buying  books.  But  I  had 
another  advantage  in  it.  My  brother  and  the  rest  going  from 
the  printing-house  to  their  meals,  I  remained  there  alone,  and 
dispatching  presently  my  light  repast,  which  often  was  no  more 
than  a  biscuit  or  a  slice  of  bread,  a  handful  of  raisins  or  a  tart 
from  the  pastry-cook's,  and  a  glass  of  water,  had  the  rest  of  the 
time  till  their  return  for  study,  in  which  I  made  the  greater 
progress,  from  that  greater  clearness  of  head  and  quicker 
apprehension  which  usually  attend  temperance  in  eating  and 
drinking. 

And  now  it  was  that,  being  on  some  occasion  made  ashamed 
of  my  ignorance  in  figures,  which  I  had  twice  failed  in  learning 
when  at  school,  I  took  Cocker's  book  of  Arithmetic,  and  went 
through  the  whole  by  myself  with  great  ease.  I  also  read 
Seller's  and  Shermy's  books  of  Navigation,  and  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  little  geometry  they  contain;  but  never  pro- 
ceeded far  in  that  science.  And  I  read  about  this  time  Locke 
On  Human  Understandings  and  the  Art  of  Thinking,  by  Messrs. 
du  Port  Royal. 

While  I  was  intent  on  improving  my  language,  I  met  with 
an  EngHsh  Grammar  (I  think  it  was  Greenwood's),  at  the  end 
of  which  there  were  two  little  sketches  of  the  arts  of  rhetoric 


14  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

and  logic,  the  latter  finishing  with  a  specimen  of  a  dispute  in 
the  Socratic  method;  and  soon  after  I  procured  Xenophon's 
Memorable  Things  of  Socrates,  wherein  there  are  many  instances 
of  the  same  method.  I  was  charmed  with  it,  adopted  it,  dropped 
my  abrupt  contradiction  and  positive  argumentation,  and  put 
on  the  humble  inquirer  and  doubter.  And  being  then,  from 
reading  Shaftesbury  and  Collins,^  become  a  real  doubter  in 
many  points  of  our  religious  doctrine,  I  found  this  method 
safest  for  myself  and  very  embarrassing  to  those  against  whom 
I  used  it;  therefore  I  took  a  delight  in  it,  practiced  it  continu- 
ally, and  grew  very  artful  and  expert  in  drawing  people,  even 
of  superior  knowledge,  into  concessions,  the  consequences  of 
which  they  did  not  foresee,  entangling  them  in  difficulties  out 
of  which  they  could  not  extricate  themselves,  and  so  obtaining 
victories  that  neither  myself  nor  my  cause  always  deserv^ed. 
I  continued  this  method  some  few  years,  but  gradually  left  it, 
retaining  only  the  habit  of  expressing  myself  in  terms  of  modest 
diffidence;  never  using,  when  I  advanced  anything  that  may 
possibly  be  disputed,  the  words  certainly,  undoubtedly,  or  any 
others  that  give  the  air  of  positiveness  to  an  opinion;  but  rather 
say,  I  conceive  or  apprehend  a  thing  to  be  so  and  so;  it  appears 
to  me,  or  I  should  think  it  so  or  so,  for  such  and  such  reasons;  or 
/  imagine  it  to  be  so;  or  it  is  so  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  This  habit, 
I  believe,  has  been  of  great  advantage  to  me  when  I  have  had 
occasion  to  inculcate  my  opinions,  and  persuade  men  into 
measures  that  I  have  been  from  time  to  time  engaged  in  pro- 
moting; and  as  the  chief  ends  of  conversation  are  to  inform  or 
to  be  informed,  to  please  or  to  persuade,  I  wish  well-meaning, 
sensible  men  would  not  lessen  their  power  of  doing  good  by  a 
positive,  assuming  manner,  that  seldom  fails  to  disgust,  tends 
to  create  opposition,  and  to  defeat  every  one  of  those  purposes 
for  which  speech  was  given  to  us,  to  wit,  giving  or  receiving 
information  or  pleasure.  For  if  you  would  inform,  a  positive 
and  dogmatical  manner  in  advancing  your  sentiments  may 
provoke  contradiction  and  prevent  a  candid  attention.  If  you 
wish  information  and  improvement  from  the  knowledge  of 
others,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  express  yourself  as  firmly  fixed 
in  your  present  opinions,  modest,  sensible  men  who  do  not  love 

*  The  third  earl  of  Shaftesbury  (1671-1713)  and  Anthony  Collins  (1676-1729) 
were  English  Deists. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  15 

disputation  will  probably  leave  you  undisturbed  in  the  posses- 
sion of  your  error.  And  by  such  a  manner  you  can  seldom  hope 
to  recommend  yourself  in  pleasing  your  hearers,  or  to  persuade 
those  whose  concurrence  you  desire.  Pope  says,  judiciously:  — 

"Men  should  be  taught  as  if  you  taught  them  not, 
And  things  unknown  propos'd  as  things  forgot"; 

farther  recommending  to  us 

"To  speak,  tho'  sure,  with  seeming  diffidence." 

And  he  might  have  coupled  with  this  line  that  which  he  has 
coupled  with  another,  I  think  less  properly, 

"For  want  of  modesty  is  want  of  sense." 

K  you  ask.  Why  less  properly?  I  must  repeat  the  lines,  — 

"Immodest  words  admit  of  no  defense. 
For  want  of  modesty  is  want  of  sense." 

Now,  is  not  want  of  sense  (where  a  man  is  so  unfortunate  as  to 
want  it)  some  apology  for  his  want  of  modesty?  and  would  not 
the  lines  stand  more  justly  thus? 

"Immodest  words  admit  hut  this  defense, 
That  want  of  modesty  is  want  of  sense." 

This,  however,  I  should  submit  to  better  judgments. 

My  brother  had,  ini72oori72i,  begun  to  print  a  newspaper. 
It  was  the  second^  that  appeared  in  America,  and  was  called 
the  New  England  Courant.  The  only  one  before  it  was  the 
Boston  News-Letter.  I  remember  his  being  dissuaded  by  some 
of  his  friends  from  the  undertaking,  as  not  likely  to  succeed, 
one  newspaper  being,  in  their  judgment,  enough  for  America. 
At  this  time  (17  71)  there  are  not  less  than  five-and- twenty. 
He  went  on,  however,  with  the  undertaking,  and  after  having 
worked  in  composing  the  types  and  printing  off  the  sheets,  I 
was  employed  to  carry  the  papers  through  the  streets  to  the 
customers. 

He  had  some  ingenious  men  among  his  friends,  who  amused 
themselves  by  writing  little  pieces  for  this  paper,  which  gained 
it  credit  and  made  it  more  in  demand,  and  these  gentlemen 
often  visited  us.  Hearing  their  conversations,  and  their  ac- 
coimts  of  the  approbation  their  papers  were  received  with,  I 
*  Actually  the  fourth. 


i6  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

was  excited  to  try  my  hand  among  them ;  but  being  still  a  boy, 
and  suspecting  that  my  brother  would  object  to  printing  any- 
thing of  mine  in  his  paper  if  he  knew  it  to  be  mine,  I  contrived 
to  disguise  my  hand,  and  writing  an  anonymous  paper,  I  put 
it  in  at  night  under  the  door  of  the  printing-house.  It  was 
found  in  the  morning,  and  communicated  to  his  writing  friends 
when  they  called  in  as  usual.  They  read  it,  commented  on  it 
in  my  hearing,  and  I  had  the  exquisite  pleasure  of  finding  it 
met  with  their  approbation,  and  that  in  their  different  guesses 
at  the  author,  none  were  named  but  men  of  some  character 
among  us  for  learning  and  ingenuity.  I  suppose  now  that  I 
was  rather  lucky  in  my  judges,  and  that  perhaps  they  were  not 
really  so  very  good  ones  as  I  then  esteemed  them. 

Encouraged,  however,  by  this,  I  wrote  and  conveyed  in  the 
same  way  to  the  press  several  more  papers  which  were  equally 
approved;  and  I  kept  my  secret  till  my  small  fund  of  sense  for 
such  performances  was  pretty  well  exhausted,  and  then  I  dis- 
covered ^  it,  when  I  began  to  be  considered  a  Uttle  more  by  my 
brother's  acquaintance,  and  in  a  manner  that  did  not  quite 
please  him,  as  he  thought,  probably  with  reason,  that  it  tended 
to  make  me  too  vain.  And,  perhaps,  this  might  be  one  occasion 
of  the  differences  that  we  began  to  have  about  this  time. 
Though  a  brother,  he  considered  himself  as  my  master,  and  me 
as  his  apprentice,  and,  accordingly,  expected  the  same  services 
from  me  as  he  would  from  another,  while  I  thought  he  demeaned 
me  too  much  in  some  he  required  of  me,  who  from  a  brother 
expected  more  indulgence.  Our  disputes  were  often  brought 
before  our  father,  and  I  fancy  I  was  either  generally  in  the 
right,  or  else  a  better  pleader,  because  the  judgment  was  gen- 
erally in  my  favor.  But  my  brother  was  passionate,  and  had 
often  beaten  me,  which  I  took  extremely  amiss;  and,  thinking 
my  apprenticeship  very  tedious,  I  was  continually  wishing  for 
some  opportunity  of  shortening  it,  which  at  length  offered  in  a 
manner  unexpected. ^ 

One  of  the  pieces  in  our  newspaper  on  some  political  point, 
which  I  have  now  forgotten,  gave  offense  to  the  Assembly.  He 
was  taken  up,  censured,  and  imprisoned  for  a  month,  by  the 

^  Revealed. 

2  I  fancy  his  harsh  and  tyrannical  treatment  of  me  might  be  a  means  of  im- 
'  pressing  me  with  that  aversion  to  arbitrary  power  that  has  stuck  to  me  through 
imy  whole  life.   [Author's  note.] 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  17 

speaker's  warrant,  I  suppose,  because  he  would  not  discover 
his  author.  I  too  was  taken  up  and  examined  before  the  coun- 
cil; but,  though  I  did  not  give  them  any  satisfaction,  they  con- 
tented themselves  with  admonishing  me,  and  dismissed  me, 
considering  me,  perhaps,  as  an  apprentice,  who  was  bound 
to  keep  his  master's  secrets. 

During  my  brother's  confinement,  which  I  resented  a  good 
deal,  notwithstanding  our  private  differences,  I  had  the  man- 
agement of  the  paper;  and  I  made  bold  to  give  our  rulers  some 
rubs  in  it,  which,  my  brother  took  very  kindly,  while  others 
began  to  consider  me  in  an  unfavorable  light,  as  a  young  genius 
that  had  a  turn  for  libelling  and  satire.  My  brother's  discharge 
was  accompanied  with  an  order  of  the  House  (a  very  odd  one), 
that  ^^  James  Franklin  should  no  longer  print  the  paper  called  the 
New  England  C  our  ant.'' 

There  was  a  consultation  held  in  our  printing-house  among 
his  friends,  what  he  should  do  in  this  case.  Some  proposed  to 
evade  the  order  by  changing  the  name  of  the  paper;  but  my 
brother,  seeing  inconveniences  in  that,  it  was  finally  concluded 
on  as  a  better  way,  to  let  it  be  printed  for  the  future  under  the 
name  of  Benjamin  Franklin;  and  to  avoid  the  censure  of  the 
Assembly,  that  might  fall  on  him  as  still  printing  it  by  his 
apprentice,  the  contrivance  was  that  my  old  indenture  should 
be  returned  to  me,  with  a  full  discharge  on  the  back  of  it,  to 
be  shown  on  occasion,  but  to  secure  to  him  the  benefit  of  my 
service,  I  was  to  sign  new  indentures  for  the  remainder  of  the 
term,  which  were  to  be  kept  private.  A  very  flimsy  scheme  it 
was;  however,  it  was  immediately  executed,  and  the  paper  went 
on  accordingly,  under  my  name  for  several  months. 

At  length,  a  fresh  difference  arising  between  my  brother  and 
me,  I  took  upon  me  to  assert  my  freedom,  presuming  that  he 
would  not  venture  to  produce  the  new  indentures.  It  was  not 
fair  in  me  to  take  this  advantage,  and  this  I  therefore  reckon 
one  of  the  first  errata  of  my  life;  but  the  unfairness  of  it  weighed 
little  with  me,  when  under  the  impressions  of  resentment  for 
the  blows  his  passion  too  often  urged  him  to  bestow  upon  me, 
though  he  was  otherwise  not  an  ill-natured  man:  perhaps  I  was 
too  saucy  and  provoking. 

When  he  found  I  would  leave  him,  he  took  care  to  prevent 
my  getting  employment  in  any  other  printing-house  of  the 


i8  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

town,  by  going  round  and  speaking  to  every  master,  who 
accordingly  refused  to  give  me  work.  I  then  thought  of  going 
to  New  York,  as  the  nearest  place  where  there  was  a  printer; 
and  I  was  rather  incHned  to  leave  Boston  when  I  reflected  that 
I  had  already  made  myself  a  little  obnoxious  to  the  governing 
party,  and  from  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  the  Assembly  in 
my  brother's  case,  it  was  likely  I  might,  if  I  stayed,  soon  bring 
myself  into  scrapes;  and  further,  that  my  indiscreet  disputa- 
tions about  religion  began  to  make  me  pointed  at  with  horror 
by  good  people  as  an  infidel  or  atheist.  I  determined  on  the 
point,  but  my  father  now  siding  with  my  brother,  I  was  sensi- 
ble that  if  I  attempted  to  go  openly,  means  would  be  used  to 
prevent  me.  My  friend  Collins,  therefore,  undertook  to  man- 
age a  little  for  me.  He  agreed  with  the  captain  of  a  New  York 
sloop  for  my  passage,  under  the  notion  of  my  being  a  young 
acquaintance  of  his  that  had  got  a  naughty  girl  with  child, 
whose  friends  would  compel  me  to  marry  her,  and  therefore  I 
could  not  appear  or  come  away  publicly.  So  I  sold  some  of  my 
books  to  raise  a  little  money,  was  taken  on  board  privately,  and 
as  we  had  a  fair  wind,  in  three  days  I  found  myself  in  New  York, 
near  three  hundred  miles  from  home,  a  boy  of  but  seventeen, 
without  the  least  recommendation  to,  or  knowledge  of,  any 
person  in  the  place,  and  with  very  little  money  in  my  pocket. 

My  inclinations  for  the  sea  were  by  this  time  worn  out,  or  I 
might  now  have  gratified  them.  But,  having  a  trade,  and  sup- 
posing myself  a  pretty  good  workman,  I  offered  my  service  to 
the  printer  in  the  place,  old  Mr.  William  Bradford,  who  had 
been  the  first  printer  in  Pennsylvania,  but  removed  from  thence 
upon  the  quarrel  of  George  Keith.  He  could  give  me  no  em- 
ployment, having  little  to  do,  and  help  enough  already;  but 
says  he,  *'My  son  at  Philadelphia  has  lately  lost  his  principal 
hand,  Aquila  Rose,  by  death;  if  you  go  thither,  I  believe  he 
may  employ  you."  Philadelphia  was  a  hundred  miles  further; 
I  set  out,  however,  in  a  boat  for  Amboy,  leaving  my  chest  and 
things  to  follow  me  round  by  sea. 

In  crossing  the  bay,  we  met  with  a  squall  that  tore  our  rotten 
sails  to  pieces,  prevented  our  getting  into  the  Kill,  and  drove 
us  upon  Long  Island.  In  our  way,  a  drunken  Dutchman,  who 
was  a  passenger  too,  fell  overboard;  when  he  was  sinking,  I 
reached  through  the  water  to  his  shock  pate,  and  drew  him  up, 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  19 

so  that  we  got  him  in  again.  His  dticking  sobered  him  a  little, 
and  he  went  to  sleep,  taking  first  out  of  his  pocket  a  book, 
which  he  desired  I  would  dry  for  him.  It  proved  to  be  my  old 
favorite  author,  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  in  Dutch,  finely 
printed  on  good  paper,  with  copper  cuts,  a  dress  better  than  I 
had  ever  seen  it  wear  in  its  own  language.  I  have  since  found 
that  it  has  been  translated  into  most  of  the  languages  of  Europe, 
and  suppose  it  has  been  more  generally  read  than  any  other 
book,  except  perhaps  the  Bible.  Honest  John  was  the  first  that 
I  know  of  who  mixed  narration  and  dialogue;  a  method  of 
writing  very  engaging  to  the  reader,  who  in  the  most  interest- 
ing parts  finds  himself,  as  it  were,  brought  into  the  company 
and  present  at  the  discourse.  De  Foe  in  his  Crusoe,  his  Moll 
Flanders,  Religious  Courtship,  Family  Instructor,  and  other 
pieces,  has  imitated  it  with  success,  and  Richardson  has  done 
the  same  in  his  Pamela,  etc. 

When  we  drew  near  the  island,  we  found  it  was  at  a  place 
where  there  could  be  no  landing,  there  being  a  great  surf  on 
the  stony  beach.  So  we  dropped  anchor,  and  swung  round 
towards  the  shore.  Some  people  came  down  to  the  water  edge 
and  hallooed  to  us,  as  we  did  to  them;  but  the  wind  was  so  high, 
and  the  surf  so  loud,  that  we  could  not  hear  so  as  to  understand 
each  other.  There  were  canoes  on  the  shore,  and  we  made  signs, 
and  hallooed  that  they  should  fetch  us;  but  they  either  did  not 
understand  us,  or  thought  it  impracticable,  so  they  went  away, 
and  night  coming  on,  we  had  no  remedy  but  to  wait  till  the 
wind  should  abate;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  the  boatman  and  I 
concluded  to  sleep,  if  we  could;  and  so  crowded  into  the  scuttle, 
with  the  Dutchman,  who  was  still  wet;  and  the  spray  beating 
over  the  head  of  our  boat,  leaked  through  to  us,  so  that  we 
were  soon  almost  as  wet  as  he.  In  this  manner  we  lay  all  night, 
with  very  little  rest;  but  the  wind  abating  the  next  day,  we 
made  a  shift  to  reach  Amboy  before  night,  having  been  thirty 
hours  on  the  water,  without  victuals,  or  any  drink  but  a  bottle 
of  filthy  rum,  the  water  we  sailed  on  being  salt. 

In  the  evening  I  found  myself  very  feverish,  and  went  in  to 
bed;  but  having  read  somewhere  that  cold  water  drank  plenti- 
fully was  good  for  a  fever,  I  followed  the  prescription,  sweat 
plentifully  most  of  the  night,  my  fever  left  me,  and  in  the 
morning,  crossing  the  ferry,  I  proceeded  on  my  journey  on  foot, 


20  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

having  fifty  miles  to  Burlington,  where  I  was  told  I  should 
find  boats  that  would  carry  me  the  rest  of  the  way  to  Phila- 
delphia. 

It  rained  very  hard  all  the  day;  I  was  thoroughly  soaked,  and 
by  noon  a  good  deal  tired ;  so  I  stopped  at  a  poor  inn,  where  I 
stayed  all  night,  beginning  now  to  wish  that  I  had  never  left 
home.  I  cut  so  miserable  a  figure,  too,  that  I  found,  by  the 
questions  asked  me,  I  was  suspected  to  be  some  runaway  serv- 
ant, and  in  danger  of  being  taken  up  on  that  suspicion.  How- 
ever, I  proceeded  the  next  day,  and  got  in  the  evening  to  an  inn, 
within  eight  or  ten  miles  of  Burlington,  kept  by  one  Dr.  Brown. 
He  entered  into  conversation  with  me  while  I  took  some  re- 
freshment, and,  finding  I  had  read  a  little,  became  very  sociable 
and  friendly.  Our  acquaintance  continued  as  long  as  he  lived. 
He  had  been,  I  imagine,  an  itinerant  doctor,  for  there  was  no 
town  in  England,  or  country  in  Europe,  of  which  he  could  not 
give  a  very  particular  account.  He  had  some  letters,  and  was 
ingenious,  but  much  of  an  unbeliever,  and  wickedly  undertook, 
some  years  after,  to  travesty  the  Bible  in  doggerel  verse,  as 
Cotton  had  done  Virgil.  By  this  means  he  set  many  of  the  facts 
in  a  very  ridiculous  light,  and  might  have  hurt  weak  minds  if 
his  work  had  been  published ;  but  it  never  was. 

At  his  house  I  lay  that  night,  and  the  next  morning  reached 
Burlington,  but  had  the  mortification  to  find  that  the  regular 
boats  were  gone  a  Httle  before  my  coming,  and  no  other  ex- 
pected to  go  before  Tuesday,  this  being  Saturday ;  wherefore  I 
returned  to  an  old  woman  in  the  town,  of  whom  I  had  bought 
gingerbread  to  eat  on  the  water,  and  asked  her  advice.  She 
invited  me  to  lodge  at  her  house  till  a  passage  by  water  should 
offer;  and  being  tired  with  my  foot  traveling,  I  accepted  the 
invitation.  She,  understanding  I  was  a  printer,  would  have 
had  me  stay  at  that  town  and  follow  my  business,  being  igno- 
rant of  the  stock  necessary  to  begin  with.  She  was  very  hospita- 
ble, gave  me  a  dinner  of  ox-cheek  with  great  good-will,  accept- 
ing only  of  a  pot  of  ale  in  return;  and  I  thought  myself  fixed 
till  Tuesday  should  come.  However,  walking  in  the  evening 
by  the  side  of  the  river,  a  boat  came  by,  which  I  found  was 
going  towards  Philadelphia,  with  several  people  in  her.  They 
took  me  in,  and,  as  there  was  no  wind,  we  rowed  all  the  way; 
and  about  midnight,  not  having  yet  seen  the  city,  some  of  the 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  21 

company  were  confident  we  must  have  passed  it,  and  would 
row  no  farther;  the  others  knew  not  where  we  were;  so  we  put 
toward  the  shore,  got  into  a  creek,  landed  near  an  old  fence, 
with  the  rails  of  which  we  made  a  fire,  the  night  being  cold,  in 
October,  and  there  we  remained  till  daylight.  Then  one  of  the 
company  knew  the  place  to  be  Cooper's  Creek,  a  little  above 
Philadelphia,  which  we  saw  as  soon  as  we  got  out  of  the  creek, 
and  arrived  there  about  eight  or  nine  o'clock  on  the  Sunday 
morning,  and  landed  at  the  Market  Street  wharf. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  this  description  of  my 
journey,  and  shall  be  so  of  my  first  entry  into  that  city,  that 
you  may  in  your  mind  compare  such  unlikely  beginnings  with 
the  figure  I  have  since  made  there.  I  was  in  my  working-dress, 
my  best  clothes  being  to  come  round  by  sea.  I  was  dirty  from 
my  journey;  my  pockets  were  stuffed  out  with  shirts  and  stock- 
ings, and  I  knew  no  soul  nor  where  to  look  for  lodging.  I  was 
fatigued  with  traveling,  rowing,  and  want  of  rest,  I  was  very 
hungr}^;  and  my  whole  stock  of  cash  consisted  of  a  Dutch  dol- 
lar, and  about  a  shilling  in  copper.  The  latter  I  gave  the  people 
of  the  boat  for  my  passage,  who  at  first  refused  it  on  account 
of  my  rowing;  but  I  insisted  on  their  taking  it.  A  man  being 
sometimes  more  generous  when  he  has  but  a  little  money  than 
when  he  has  plenty,  perhaps  through  fear  of  being  thought  to 
have  but  little. 

Then  I  walked  up  the  street,  gazing  about  till  near  the 
market-house  I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I  had  made  many  a 
meal  on  bread,  and  inquiring  where  he  got  it,  I  went  immedi- 
ately to  the  baker's  he  directed  me  to,  in  Second  Street,  and 
asked  for  biscuit,  intending  such  as  we  had  in  Boston;  but 
they,  it  seems,  were  not  made  in  Philadelphia.  Then  I  asked 
for  a  three-penny  loaf,  and  was  told  they  had  none  such.  So 
not  considering  or  knowing  the  difference  of  money,  and  the 
greater  cheapness  nor  the  names  of  his  bread,  I  bade  him  give 
me  three-penny  worth  of  any  sort.  He  gave  me,  accordingly, 
three  great  puffy  rolls.  I  was  surprised  at  the  quantity,  but 
took  it,  and  having  no  room  in  my  pockets,  walked  off  with  a 
roll  under  each  arm,  and  eating  the  other.  Thus  I  went  up 
Market  Street  as  far  as  Fourth  Street,  passing  by  the  door  of 
Mr.  Read,  my  future  wife's  father;  when  she,  standing  at  the 
door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I  made,  as  I  certainly  did,  a  most 


22  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

awkward,  ridiculous  appearance.  Then  I  turned  and  went  down 
Chestnut  Street  and  part  of  Walnut  Street,  eating  my  roll  all 
the  way,  and  coming  round,  found  myself  again  at  Market 
Street  wharf,  near  the  boat  I  came  in,  to  which  I  went  for  a 
draught  of  the  river  water;  and  being  filled  with  one  of  my  rolls, 
gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her  child  that  came  down 
the  river  in  the  boat  with  us,  and  were  waiting  to  go  farther. 

Thus  refreshed,  I  walked  again  up  the  street,  which  by  this 
time  had  many  clean-dressed  people  in  it,  who  were  all  walking 
the  same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  thereby  was  led  into  the 
great  meeting-house  of  the  Quakers  near  the  market.  I  sat 
down  among  them,  and  after  looking  round  a  while  and  hearing 
nothing  said,  being  very  drowsy  through  labor  and  want  of  rest 
the  preceding  night,  I  fell  fast  asleep,  and  continued  so  till  the 
meeting  broke  up,  when  one  was  kind  enough  to  rouse  me. 
This  was,  therefore,  the  first  house  I  was  in  or  slept  in,  in 
Philadelphia. 

Walking  down  again  toward  the  river,  and  looking  in  the 
faces  of  people,  I  met  a  young  Quaker  man,  whose  countenance 
I  liked,  and,  accosting  him,  requested  he  would  tell  me  where 
a  stranger  could  get  lodging.  We  were  then  near  the  sign  of  the 
Three  Mariners.  "Here,"  says  he,  "is  one  place  that  enter- 
tains strangers,  but  it  is  not  a  reputable  house;  if  thee  wilt  walk 
with  me,  I'll  show  thee  a  better."  He  brought  me  to  the 
Crooked  Billet  in  Water  Street.  Here  I  got  a  dinner;  and  while 
I  was  eating  it,  several  sly  questions  were  asked  me,  as  it 
seemed  to  be  suspected  from  my  youth  and  appearance  that  I 
might  be  some  runaway. 

After  dinner,  my  sleepiness  returned,  and  being  shown  to  a 
bed,  I  lay  down  without  undressing,  and  slept  till  six  in  the 
evening,  was  called  to  supper,  went  to  bed  again  very  early, 
and  slept  soundly  till  next  morning.  Then  I  made  myself  as 
tidy  as  I  could,  and  went  to  Andrew  Bradford  the  printer's.  I 
found  in  the  shop  the  old  man  his  father,  whom  I  had  seen  at 
New  York,  and  who,  traveling  on  horseback,  had  got  to  Phila- 
delphia before  me.  He  introduced  me  to  his  son,  who  received 
me  civilly,  gave  me  a  breakfast,  but  told  me  he  did  not  at 
present  want  a  hand,  being  lately  supplied  with  one;  but  there 
was  another  printer  in  town,  lately  set  up,  one  Keimer,  who, 
perhaps,  might  employ  me;  if  not,  I  should  be  welcome  to  lodge 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  23 

at  his  house,  and  he  would  give  me  a  little  work  to  do  now  and 
then  till  fuller  business  should  offer. 

The  old  gentleman  said  he  would  go  with  me  to  the  new 
printer;  and  when  we  found  him,  "Neighbor,"  says  Bradford, 
"I  have  brought  to  see  you  a  young  man  of  your  business;  per- 
haps you  may  want  such  a  one."  He  asked  me  a  few  questions, 
put  a  composing  stick  in  my  hand  to  see  how  I  worked,  and 
then  said  he  would  employ  me  soon,  though  he  had  just  then 
nothing  for  me  to  do;  and  taking  old  Bradford,  whom  he  had 
never  seen  before,  to  be  one  of  the  town's  people  that  had  a 
good  will  for  him,  entered  into  a  conversation  on  his  present 
undertaking  and  prospects;  while  Bradford,  not  discovering 
that  he  was  the  other  printer's  father,  on  Keimer's  saying  he 
expected  soon  to  get  the  greatest  part  of  the  business  into  his 
own  hands,  drew  him  on  by  artful  questions,  and  starting  little 
doubts,  to  explain  all  his  views,  what  interests  he  relied  on,  and 
in  what  manner  he  intended  to  proceed.  I,  who  stood  by  and 
heard  all,  saw  immediately  that  one  of  them  was  a  crafty  old 
sophister,  and  the  other  a  mere  novice.  Bradford  left  me  with 
Keimer,  who  was  greatly  surprised  when  I  told  him  who  the 
old  man  was. 

Keimer's  printing-house,  I  found,  consisted  of  an  old  shat- 
tered press,  and  one  small,  worn-out  font  of  English,  which  he 
was  then  using  himself,  composing  an  Elegy  on  Aquila  Rose, 
before  mentioned,  an  ingenious  young  man,  of  excellent  char- 
acter, much  respected  in  the  town,  clerk  of  the  Assembly,  and 
a  pretty  poet.  Keimer  made  verses  too,  but  very  indifferently. 
He  could  not  be  said  to  write  them,  for  his  manner  was  to  com- 
pose them  in  the  types  directly  out  of  his  head.  So  there  being 
no  copy,  but  one  pair  of  cases,  and  the  Elegy  likely  to  require 
all  the  letter,^  no  one  could  help  him.  I  endeavored  to  put  his 
press  (which  he  had  not  yet  used,  and  of  which  he  understood 
nothing)  into  order  fit  to  be  worked  with;  and  promising  to 
come  and  print  off  his  Elegy  as  soon  as  he  should  have  got  it 
ready,  I  returned  to  Bradford's,  who  gave  me  a  little  job  to  do 
for  the  present,  and  there  I  lodged  and  dieted.  A  few  days 
after,  Keimer  sent  for  me  to  print  off  the  Elegy.  And  now  he 
had  got  another  pair  of  cases,  and  a  pamphlet  to  reprint,  on 
which  he  set  me  to  work. 

1  The  types. 


24  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

These  two  printers  I  found  poorly  qualified  for  their  business. 
Bradford  had  not  been  bred  to  it,  and  was  very  illiterate;  and 
Keimer,  though  something  of  a  scholar,  was  a  mere  compositor 
knowing  nothing  of  presswork.  He  had  been  one  of  the  French 
prophets,^  and  could  act  their  enthusiastic  agitations.  At  this 
time  he  did  not  profess  any  particular  religion,  but  something 
of  all  on  occasion;  was  very  ignorant  of  the  world,  and  had,  as  I 
afterward  found,  a  good  deal  of  the  knave  in  his  composition. 
He  did  not  like  my  lodging  at  Bradford's  while  I  worked  with 
him.  He  had  a  house  indeed,  but  without  furniture,  so  he  could 
not  lodge  me;  but  he  got  me  a  lodging  at  Mr.  Read's  before 
mentioned,  who  was  the  owner  of  his  house;  and  my  chest  and 
clothes  being  come  by  this  time,  I  made  rather  a  more  respect- 
able appearance  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Read  than  I  had  done  when 
she  first  happened  to  see  me  eating  my  roll  in  the  street. 

I  began  now  to  have  some  acquaintance  among  the  young 
people  of  the  town  that  were  lovers  of  reading,  with  whom  I 
spent  my  evenings  very  pleasantly;  and  gaining  money  by  my 
industry  and  frugality,  I  lived  very  agreeably,  forgetting  Boston 
as  much  as  I  could,  and  not  desiring  that  any  there  should 
know  where  I  resided  except  my  friend  Collins,  who  was  in  my 
secret,  and  kept  it  when  I  wrote  to  him.  At  length,  an  incident 
happened  that  sent  me  back  again  much  sooner  than  I  had 
intended.  I  had  a  brother-in-law,  Robert  Holmes,  master  of 
a  sloop  that  traded  between  Boston  and  Delaware.  He  being 
at  Newcastle,  forty  miles  below  Philadelphia,  heard  there  of 
me,  and  wrote  me  a  letter  mentioning  the  concern  of  my 
friends  in  Boston  at  my  abrupt  departure,  assuring  me  of  their 
good-will  to  me,  and  that  everything  would  be  accommodated 
to  my  mind  if  I  would  return,  to  which  he  exhorted  me  very 
earnestly.  I  wrote  an  answer  to  his  letter,  thanked  him  for  his 
advice,  but  stated  my  reasons  for  quitting  Boston  fully  and  in 
such  a  light  as  to  convince  him  I  was  not  so  wrong  as  he  had 
apprehended. 

Sir  William  Keith,  governor  of  the  pro\dnce,  was  then  at 
Newcastle,  and  Captain  Holmes,  happening  to  be  in  company 
with  him  when  my  letter  came  to  hand,  spoke  to  him  of  me, 
and  showed  him  the  letter.  The  governor  read  it,  and  seemed 
surprised  when  he  was  told  my  age.  He  said  I  appeared  a  young 

^  A  religious  sect. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  25 

man  of  promising  parts,  and  therefore  should  be  encouraged; 
the  printers  at  Philadelphia  were  wretched  ones;  and,  if  I  would 
set  up  there,  he  made  no  doubt  I  should  succeed ;  for  his  part, 
he  would  procure  me  the  public  business,  and  do  me  every 
other  service  in  his  power.  This  my  brother-in-law  afterwards 
told  me  in  Boston,  but  I  knew  as  yet  nothing  of  it;  when,  one 
day,  Keimer  and  I  being  at  work  together  near  the  window, 
we  saw  the  governor  and  another  gentleman  (which  proved  to 
be  Colonel  French  of  Newcastle),  finely  dressed,  come  directly 
across  the  street  to  our  house,  and  heard  them  at  the  door. 

Keimer  ran  down  immediately,  thinking  it  a  visit  to  him; 
but  the  governor  inquired  for  me,  came  up,  and  with  a  conde- 
scension and  politeness  I  had  been  quite  unused  to  made  me 
many  compliments,  desired  to  be  acquainted  with  me,  blamed 
me  kindly  for  not  having  made  myself  known  to  him  when  I 
first  came  to  the  place,  and  would  have  me  away  with  him  to 
the  tavern,  where  he  was  going  with  Colonel  French  to  taste, 
as  he  said,  some  excellent  Madeira.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised, 
and  Keimer  stared  like  a  pig  poisoned.  I  went,  however,  with 
the  governor  and  Colonel  French  to  a  tavern,  at  the  comer  of 
Third  Street,  and  over  the  Madeira  he  proposed  my  setting  up 
my  business,  laid  before  me  the  probabilities  of  success,  and 
both  he  and  Colonel  French  assured  me  I  should  have  their 
interest  and  influence  in  procuring  the  public  business  of  both 
governments.  On  my  doubting  whether  my  father  would  assist 
me  in  it,  Sir  William  said  he  would  give  me  a  letter  to  him,  in 
which  he  would  state  the  advantages,  and  he  did  not  doubt  of 
prevailing  with  him.  So  it  was  concluded  I  should  return  to 
Boston  in  the  first  vessel,  with  the  governor's  letter  recom- 
mending me  to  my  father.  In  the  mean  time  the  intention  was 
to  be  kept  a  secret,  and  I  went  on  working  with  Keimer  as 
usual,  the  governor  sending  for  me  now  and  then  to  dine  with 
him,  a  very  great  honor  I  thought  it,  and  conversing  with  me 
in  the  most  affable,  familiar,  and  friendly  manner  imaginable. 

About  the  end  of  April,  1724,  a  little  vessel  offered  for  Boston. 
I  took  leave  of  Keimer  as  going  to  see  my  friends.  The  governor 
gave  me  an  ample  letter,  saying  many  flattering  things  of  me 
to  my  father,  and  strongly  recommending  the  project  of  my 
setting  up  at  Philadelphia  as  a  thing  that  must  make  my  for- 
tune. We  struck  on  a  shoal  in  going  down  the  bay,  and  sprung 


26  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

a  leak;  we  had  a  blustering  time  at  sea,  and  were  obliged  to 
pump  almost  continually,  at  which  I  took  my  turn.  We  arrived 
safe,  however,  at  Boston  in  about  a  fortnight.  I  had  been  ab- 
sent seven  months,  and  my  friends  had  heard  nothing  of  me; 
for  my  brother  Holmes  was  not  yet  returned,  and  had  not 
written  about  me.  My  unexpected  appearance  surprised  the 
family;  all  were,  however,  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  made  me 
welcome,  except  my  brother.  I  went  to  see  him  at  his  print- 
ing-house. I  was  better  dressed  than  ever  while  in  his  service, 
having  a  genteel  new  suit  from  head  to  foot,  a  watch,  and  my 
pockets  lined  with  near  five  pounds  sterUng  in  silver.  He  re- 
ceived me  not  very  frankly,  looked  me  all  over,  and  turned  to 
his  work  again. 

The  journeymen  were  inquisitive  where  I  had  been,  what 
sort  of  a  country  it  was,  and  how  I  liked  it.  I  praised  it  much, 
and  the  happy  life  I  led  in  it;  expressing  strongly  my  intention 
of  returning  to  it ;  and  one  of  them  asking  what  kind  of  money 
we  had  there,  I  produced  a  handful  of  silver,  and  spread  it 
before  them,  which  was  a  kind  of  rare  show  they  had  not  been 
used  to,  paper  being  the  money  of  Boston.  Then  I  took  an 
opportunity  of  letting  them  see  my  watch;  and,  lastly  (my 
brother  still  grum  and  sullen),  I  gave  them  a  piece  of  eight^  to 
drink,  and  took  my  leave.  This  visit  of  mine  offended  him 
.extremely;  for,  when  my  mother  some  time  after  spoke  to  him 
of  a  reconciliation,  and  of  her  wishes  to  see  us  on  good  terms 
together,  and  that  we  might  live  for  the  future  as  brothers,  he 
said  I  had  insulted  him  in  such  a  manner  before  his  people  that 
he  could  never  forget  or  forgive  it.  In  this,  however,  he  was 
mistaken. 

My  father  received  the  governor's  letter  with  some  apparent 
surprise,  but  said  little  of  it  to  me  for  some  days,  when  Captain 
Holmes  returning  he  showed  it  to  him,  asked  him  if  he  knew 
Keith,  and  what  kind  of  man  he  was;  adding  his  opinion  that 
he  must  be  of  small  discretion  to  think  of  setting  a  boy  up  in 
business  who  wanted  yet  three  years  of  being  at  man's  estate. 
Holmes  said  what  he  could  in  favor  of  the  project,  but  my  father 
was  clear  in  the  impropriety  of  it,  and  at  last  gave  a  flat  denial 
to  it.  Then  he  wrote  a  civil  letter  to  Sir  William,  thanking  him 
for  the  patronage  he  had  so  kindly  offered  me,  but  declining 

^  Spanish  dollar. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  27 

to  assist  me  as  yet  in  setting  up,  I  being,  in  his  opinion,  too 
young  to  be  trusted  with  the  management  of  a  business  so 
important,  and  for  which  the  preparation  must  be  so  expensive. 

My  friend  and  companion  Collins,  who  was  a  clerk  in  the 
p>ost-office,  pleased  with  the  account  I  gave  him  of  my  new 
country,  determined  to  go  thither  also;  and,  while  I  waited  for 
my  father's  determination,  he  set  out  before  me  by  land  to 
Rhode  Island,  leaving  his  books,  which  were  a  pretty  collection 
of  mathematics  and  natural  philosophy,  to  come  with  mine  and 
me  to  New  York,  where  he  proposed  to  wait  for  me. 

My  father,  though  he  did  not  approve  Sir  William's  proposi- 
tion, was  yet  pleased  that  I  had  been  able  to  obtain  so  advan- 
tageous a  character  from  a  person  of  such  note  where  I  had 
resided,  and  that  I  had  been  so  industrious  and  careful  as  to 
equip  myself  so  handsomely  in  so  short  a  time ;  therefore,  seeing 
no  prospect  of  an  accommodation  between  my  brother  and  me, 
he  gave  his  consent  to  my  returning  again  to  Philadelphia, 
advised  me  to  behave  respectfully  to  the  people  there,  endeavor 
to  obtain  the  general  esteem,  and  avoid  lampooning  and  libel- 
ling, to  which  he  thought  I  had  too  much  inclination;  telling 
me,  that  by  steady  industry  and  a  prudent  parsimony  I  might 
save  enough  by  the  time  I  was  one-and-twenty  to  set  me  up; 
and  that,  if  I  came  near  the  matter,  he  would  help  me  out  with 
the  rest.  This  was  all  I  could  obtain,  except  some  small  gifts 
as  tokens  of  his  and  my  mother's  love,  when  I  embarked  again 
for  New  York,  now  with  their  approbation  and  their  blessing. 

The  sloop  putting  in  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  I  visited  my 
brother  John,  who  had  been  married  and  settled  there  some 
years.  He  received  me  very  affectionately,  for  he  always  loved 
me.  A  friend  of  his,  one  Vernon,  having  some  money  due  to 
him  in  Pennsylvania,  about  thirty-five  pounds  currency,  de- 
sired I  would  receive  it  for  him,  and  keep  it  till  I  had  his  direc- 
tions what  to  remit  it  in.  Accordingly,  he  gave  me  an  order. 
This  afterwards  occasioned  me  a  good  deal  of  uneasiness. 

At  Newport  we  took  in  a  number  of  passengers  for  New  York, 
among  which  were  two  young  women,  companions,  and  a 
grave,  sensible,  matron-like  Quaker  woman,  with  her  attend- 
ants. I  had  shown  an  obliging  readiness  to  do  her  some  little 
services,  which  impressed  her  I  suppose  with  a  degree  of  good 
will  toward  me;  therefore,when  she  saw  a  daily  growing  famil- 


28  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

iarity  between  me  and  the  two  young  women,  which  they  ap- 
peared to  encourage,  she  took  me  aside,  and  said,  ''Young  man, 
I  am  concerned  for  thee,  as  thou  has  no  friend  with  thee,  and 
seems  not  to  know  much  of  the  world,  or  of  the  snares  youth  is 
exposed  to;  depend  upon  it,  those  are  very  bad  women;  I  can 
see  it  in  all  their  actions;  and  if  thee  art  not  upon  thy  guard, 
they  will  draw  thee  into  some  danger;  they  are  strangers  to 
thee,  and  I  advise  thee,  in  a  friendly  concern  for  thy  welfare, 
to  have  no  acquaintance  with  them."  As  I  seemed  at  first  not 
to  think  so  ill  of  them  as  she  did,  she  mentioned  some  things 
she  had  observed  and  heard  that  had  escaped  my  notice,  but 
now  convinced  me  she  was  right.  I  thanked  her  for  her  kind 
advice,  and  promised  to  follow  it.  When  we  arrived  at  New 
York,  they  told  me  where  they  lived,  and  invited  me  to  come 
and  see  them;  but  I  avoided  it,  and  it  was  well  I  did;  for  the 
next  day  the  captain  missed  a  silver  spoon  and  some  other 
things,  that  had  been  taken  out  of  his  cabin,  and,  knowing  that 
these  were  a  couple  of  strumpets,  he  got  a  warrant  to  search 
their  lodgings,  found  the  stolen  goods,  and  had  the  thieves 
punished.  So,  though  we  had  escaped  a  sunken  rock,  which  we 
scraped  upon  in  the  passage,  I  thought  this  escape  of  rather 
more  importance  to  me. 

At  New  York  I  found  my  friend  Collins,  who  had  arrived 
there  some  time  before  me.  We  had  been  intimate  from  chil- 
dren, and  had  read  the  same  books  together;  but  he  had  the 
advantage  of  more  time  for  reading  and  studying,  and  a  won- 
derful genius  for  mathematical  learning,  in  which  he  far  out- 
stripped me.  While  I  lived  in  Boston,  most  of  my  hours  of 
leisure  for  conversation  were  spent  with  him,  and  he  continued 
a  sober  as  well  as  an  industrious  lad;  was  much  respected  for 
his  learning  by  several  of  the  clergy  and  other  gentlemen,  and 
seemed  to  promise  making  a  good  figure  in  life.  But,  during  my 
absence,  he  had  acquired  a  habit  of  sotting  with  brandy;  and  I 
found  by  his  own  account,  and  what  I  heard  from  others,  that 
he  had  been  drunk  every  day  since  his  arrival  at  New  York, 
and  behaved  very  oddly.  He  had  gamed,  too,  and  lost  his 
money,  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  discharge  his  lodgings,  and 
defray  his  expenses  to  and  at  Philadelphia,  which  proved 
extremely  inconvenient  to  me. 

The  then  governor  of  New  York,  Burnet  (son  of  Bishop 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  29 

Burnet),  hearing  from  the  captain  that  a  young  man,  one  of  his 
passengers,  had  a  great  many  books,  desired  he  would  bring 
me  to  see  him.  I  waited  upon  him  accordingly,  and  should 
have  taken  Collins  with  me  but  that  he  was  not  sober.  The 
governor  treated  me  with  great  civility,  showed  me  his  library, 
which  was  a  very  large  one,  and  we  had  a  good  deal  of  conversa- 
tion about  books  and  authors.  This  was  the  second  governor 
who  had  done  me  the  honor  to  take  notice  of  me;  which,  to  a 
poor  boy  like  me,  was  very  pleasing. 

We  proceeded  to  Philadelphia.  I  received  on  the  way  Ver- 
non's money,  without  which  we  could  hardly  have  finished  our 
journey.  Collins  wished  to  be  employed  in  some  counting- 
house;  but,  whether  they  discovered  his  dramming  by  his 
breath,  or  by  his  behavior,  though  he  had  some  recommenda- 
tions, he  met  with  no  success  in  any  application,  and  continued 
lodging  and  boarding  at  the  same  house  with  me,  and  at  my 
expense.  Knowing  I  had  that  money  of  Vernon's  he  was  con- 
tinually borrowing  of  me,  still  promising  repayment  as  soon  as 
he  should  be  in  business.  At  length  he  had  got  so  much  of  it 
that  I  was  distressed  to  think  what  I  should  do  in  case  of  being 
called  on  to  remit  it. 

His  drinking  continued,  about  which  we  sometimes  quar- 
relled; for,  when  a  little  intoxicated,  he  was  very  fractious. 
Once,  in  a  boat  on  the  Delaware  with  some  other  young  men, 
he  refused  to  row  in  his  turn.  "I  will  be  rowed  home,"  says  he. 
"We  will  not  row  you,"  says  I.  "You  must,  or  stay  all  night  on 
the  water,"  says  he,  "just  as  you  please."  The  others  said, 
"Let  us  row;  what  signifies  it?"  But,  my  mind  being  soured 
with  his  other  conduct,  I  continued  to  refuse.  So  he  swore  he 
would  make  me  row,  or  throw  me  overboard ;  and  coming  along, 
stepping  on  the  thwarts,  toward  me,  when  he  came  up  and 
struck  at  me,  I  clapped  my  hand  under  his  crotch,  and,  rising, 
pitched  him  head-foremost  into  the  river.  I  knew  he  was  a 
good  swimmer,  and  so  was  under  little  concern  about  him;  but 
before  he  could  get  round  to  lay  hold  of  the  boat,  we  had  with 
a  few  strokes  pulled  her  out  of  his  reach;  and  ever  when  he 
drew  near  the  boat,  we  asked  if  he  would  row,  striking  a  few 
strokes  to  slide  her  away  from  him.  He  was  ready  to  die  with 
vexation,  and  obstinately  would  not  promise  to  row.  However, 
seeing  him  at  last  beginning  to  tire  we  lifted  him  in  and  brought 


30  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

him  home  dripping  wet  in  the  evening.  We  hardly  exchanged  a 
civil  word  afterwards,  and  a  West  India  captain,  who  had  a 
commission  to  procure  a  tutor  for  the  sons  of  a  gentleman  at 
Barbadoes,  happening  to  meet  with  him,  agreed  to  carry  him 
thither.  He  left  me  then,  promising  to  remit  me  the  first 
money  he  should  receive  in  order  to  discharge  the  debt;  but  I 
never  heard  of  him  after. 

The  breaking  into  this  money  of  Vernon's  was  one  of  the 
first  great  errata  of  my  life;  and  this  affair  showed  that  my 
father  was  not  much  out  in  his  judgment  when  he  supposed 
me  too  young  to  manage  business  of  importance.  But  Sir 
William,  on  reading  his  letter,  said  he  was  too  prudent.  There 
was  great  difference  in  persons;  and  discretion  did  not  always 
accompany  years,  nor  was  youth  always  without  it.  ''And 
since  he  will  not  set  you  up,"  says  he,  *'  I  will  do  it  myself.  Give 
me  an  inventory  of  the  things  necessary  to  be  had  from  Eng- 
land, and  I  will  send  for  them.  You  shall  repay  me  when  you 
are  able;  I  am  resolved  to  have  a  good  printer  here,  and  I  am 
sure  you  must  succeed.  "  This  was  spoken  with  such  an  appear- 
ance of  cordiality  that  I  had  not  the  least  doubt  of  his  meaning 
what  he  said.  I  had  hitherto  kept  the  proposition  of  my  setting 
up  a  secret  in  Philadelphia,  and  I  still  kept  it.  Had  it  been 
known  that  I  depended  on  the  governor,  probably  some  friend, 
that  knew  him  better,  would  have  advised  me  not  to  rely  on 
him,  as  I  afterwards  heard  it  as  his  known  character  to  be  Hb- 
eral  of  promises  which  he  never  meant  to  keep.  Yet,  unsolicited 
as  he  was  by  me,  how  could  I  think  his  generous  offers  insincere? 
I  believed  him  one  of  the  best  men  in  the  world. 

I  presented  him  an  inventory  of  a  little  printing-house, 
amounting  by  my  computation  to  about  one  hundred  pounds 
sterling.  He  liked  it,  but  asked  me  if  my  being  on  the  spot  in 
England  to  choose  the  types,  and  see  that  everything  was  good 
of  the  kind,  might  not  be  of  some  advantage.  "Then,"  says  he, 
"when  there,  you  may  make  acquaintances,  and  establish 
correspondences  in  the  book-selling  and  stationery  way."  I 
agreed  that  this  might  be  advantageous.  "Then,"  says  he, 
"get  yourself  ready  to  go  with  Annis,"  which  was  the  annual 
ship,  and  the  only  one  at  that  time  usually  passing  between 
London  and  Philadelphia.  But  it  would  be  some  months  before 
Annis  sailed,  so  I  continued  working  with  Keimer,  fretting 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  31 

about  the  money  Collins  had  got  from  me,  and  in  daily  appre- 
hensions of  being  called  upon  by  Vernon,  which,  however,  did 
not  happen  for  some  years  after. 

I  believe  I  have  omitted  mentioning  that,  in  my  first  voyage 
from  Boston,  being  becalmed  off  Block  Island,  our  people  set 
about  catching  cod,  and  hauled  up  a  great  many.  Hitherto  I 
had  stuck  to  my  resolution  of  not  eating  animal  food,  and  on 
this  occasion  I  considered,  with  my  master  Try  on,  the  taking 
every  fish  as  a  kind  of  unprovoked  murder,  since  none  of  them 
had,  or  ever  could  do  us  any  injury  that  might  justify  the 
slaughter.  All  this  seemed  very  reasonable.  But  I  had  formerly 
been  a  great  lover  of  fish,  and,  when  this  came  hot  out  of  the 
frying-pan,  it  smelt  admirably  well.  I  balanced  some  time 
between  principle  and  inclination,  till  I  recollected  that,  when 
the  fish  were  opened,  I  saw  smaller  fish  taken  out  of  their 
stomachs;  then  thought  I,  "If  you  eat  one  another,  I  don't  see 
why  we  may  n't  eat  you."  So  I  dined  upon  cod  very  heartily, 
and  continued  to  eat  with  other  people,  returning  only  now 
and  then  occasionally  to  a  vegetable  diet.  So  convenient  a 
thing  it  is  to  be  a  reasonable  creature,  since  it  enables  one  to 
find  or  make  a  reason  for  everything  one  has  a  mind  to  do. 

Keimer  and  I  lived  on  a  pretty  good  familiar  footing,  and 
agreed  tolerably  well,  for  he  suspected  nothing  of  my  setting 
up.  He  retained  a  great  deal  of  his  old  enthusiasm  and  loved 
argumentation.  We  therefore  had  many  disputations.  I  used 
to  work  him  so  with  my  Socratic  method,  and  trepanned  him  so 
often  by  questions  apparently  so  distant  from  any  point  we 
had  in  hand,  and  yet  by  degrees  led  to  the  point,  and  brought 
him  into  difi&culties  and  contradictions,  that  at  last  he  grew 
ridiculously  cautious,  and  would  hardly  answer  me  the  most 
common  question,  without  asking  first,  ^^What  do  you  intend  to 
infer  from  that?^''  However,  it  gave  him  so  high  an  opinion  of 
my  abilities  in  the  confuting  way,  that  he  seriously  proposed 
my  being  his  colleague  in  a  project  he  had  of  setting  up  a  new 
sect.  He  was  to  preach  the  doctrines,  and  I  was  to  confound 
all  opponents.  When  he  came  to  explain  with  me  upon  the 
doctrines,  I  found  several  conundrums  which  I  objected  to, 
unless  I  might  have  my  way  a  little  too,  and  introduce  some  of 
mine. 

Keimer  wore  his  beard  at  full  length,  because  somewhere  in 


32  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

the  Mosaic  law  it  is  said,  "  Thou  shall  not  mar  the  corners  of  thy 
beard. ^^  He  likewise  kept  the  Seventh  day,  Sabbath;  and  these 
two  points  were  essentials  with  him.  I  disliked  both;  but 
agreed  to  admit  them  upon  condition  of  his  adopting  the  doc- 
trine of  using  no  animal  food.  *'I  doubt,''  said  he,  ''my  consti- 
tution will  not  bear  that."  I  assured  him  it  would,  and  that  he 
would  be  the  better  for  it.  He  was  usually  a  great  glutton,  and 
I  promised  myself  some  diversion  in  half  starving  him.  He 
agreed  to  try  the  practice,  if  I  would  keep  him  company.  I  did 
so,  and  we  held  it  for  three  months.  We  had  our  victuals 
dressed,  and  brought  to  us  regularly  by  a  woman  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, who  had  from  me  a  list  of  forty  dishes,  to  be  prepared 
for  us  at  different  times,  in  all  of  which  there  was  neither  fish, 
flesh,  nor  fowl,  and  the  whim  suited  me  the  better  at  this  time 
from  the  cheapness  of  it,  not  costing  us  above  eighteen  pence 
sterling  each  per  week.  I  have  since  kept  several  Lents  most 
strictly,  leaving  the  common  diet  for  that  and  that  for  the 
common,  abruptly  without  the  least  inconvenience,  so  that  I 
think  that  there  is  little  in  the  advice  of  making  those  changes 
by  easy  gradations.  I  went  on  pleasantly,  but  poor  Keimer 
suffered  grievously,  tired  of  the  project,  longed  for  the  flesh- 
pots  of  Egypt, ^  and  ordered  a  roast  pig.  He  invited  me  and  two 
women  friends  to  dine  with  him;  but,  it  being  too  soon  upon 
the  table,  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  and  ate  the  whole 
before  we  came. 

I  had  made  some  courtship  during  this  time  to  Miss  Read. 
I  had  a  great  respect  and  affection  for  her,  and  had  some  reason 
to  believe  she  had  the  same  for  me;  but  as  I  was  about  to  take 
a  long  voyage,  and  we  were  both  very  young,  only  a  Httle  above 
eighteen,  it  was  thought  most  prudent  by  her  mother  to  pre- 
vent our  going  too  far  at  present,  as  a  marriage,  if  it  was  to 
take  place,  would  be  more  convenient  after  my  return,  when  I 
should  be,  as  I  expected,  set  up  in  my  business.  Perhaps,  too, 
she  thought  my  expectations  not  so  well  founded  as  I  imagined 
them  to  be. 

My  chief  acquaintances  at  this  time  were  Charles  Osborne, 
Joseph  Watson,  and  James  Ralph,  all  lovers  of  reading.  The 
two  first  were  clerks  to  an  eminent  scrivener  or  conveyancer 
in  the  town,  Charles  Brogden;  the  other  was  clerk  to  a  mer- 

*  Exodus  XVI,  3. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  33 

chant.  Watson  was  a  pious,  sensible  young  man,  of  great  integ- 
rity; the  others  rather  more  lax  in  their  principles  of  religion, 
particularly  Ralph,  who  as  well  as  Collins,  had  been  unsettled 
by  me,  for  which  they  both  made  me  suffer.  Osborne  was  sen- 
sible, candid,  frank;  sincere  and  affectionate  to  his  friends;  but 
in  literary  matters,  too  fond  of  criticising.  Ralph  was  ingenious, 
genteel  in  his  manners,  and  extremely  eloquent;  I  think  I  never 
knew  a  prettier  talker.  Both  of  them  great  admirers  of  poetry, 
and  began  to  try  their  hands  in  little  pieces.  Many  pleasant 
walks  we  four  had  together  on  Sundays  into  the  woods,  near 
Schuylkill,  where  we  read  to  one  another,  and  conferred  on 
what  we  read. 

Ralph  was  inclined  to  pursue  the  study  of  poetry,  not  doubt- 
ing but  he  might  become  eminent  in  it  and  make  his  fortune  by 
it,  alleging  that  the  best  poets  must,  when  they  first  began  to 
write,  make  as  many  faults  as  he  did.  Osborne  dissuaded  him, 
assured  him  he  had  no  genius  for  poetry,  and  advised  him  to 
think  of  nothing  beyond  the  business  he  was  bred  to;  that  in 
the  mercantile  way,  though  he  had  no  stock,  he  might  by  his 
diligence  and  punctuality  recommend  himself  to  employment 
as  a  factor,  and  in  time  acquire  wherewith  to  trade  on  his  own 
account.  I  approved  the  amusing  one's  self  with  poetry  now 
and  then,  so  far  as  to  improve  one's  language,  but  no  farther. 

On  this  it  was  proposed  that  we  should  each  of  us,  at  our 
next  meeting,  produce  a  piece  of  our  own  composing,  in  order 
to  improve  by  our  mutual  observations,  criticisms,  and  correc- 
tions. As  language  and  expression  were  what  we  had  in  view, 
we  excluded  all  considerations  of  invention  by  agreeing  that 
the  task  should  be  a  version  of  the  eighteenth  Psalm,  which 
describes  the  descent  of  a  Deity.  When  the  time  of  our  meeting 
drew  nigh,  Ralph  called  on  me  first,  and  let  me  know  his  piece 
was  ready.  I  told  him  I  had  been  busy,  and  having  little  incli- 
nation, had  done  nothing.  He  then  showed  me  his  piece  for 
my  opinion,  and  I  much  approved  it,  as  it  appeared  to  me  to 
have  great  merit.  "Now,"  says  he,  "Osborne  never  will  allow 
the  least  merit  in  anything  of  mine,  but  makes  a  thousand  criti- 
cisms out  of  mere  envy.  He  is  not  so  jealous  of  you;  I  wish, 
therefore,  you  would  take  this  piece,  and  produce  it  as  yours; 
I  will  pretend  not  to  have  had  time,  and  so  produce  nothing. 
We  shall  then  see  what  he  will  say  to  it."  It  was  agreed,  and  I 


34  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

immediately  transcribed  it,  that  it  might  appear  in  my  own 
hand. 

We  met;  Watson's  performance  was  read;  there  were  some 
beauties  in  it,  but  many  defects.  Osborne's  was  read;  it  was 
much  better;  Ralph  did  it  justice;  remarked  some  faults,  but 
applauded  the  beauties.  He  himself  had  nothing  to  produce. 
I  was  backward ;  seemed  desirous  of  being  excused ;  had  not  had 
sufficient  time  to  correct,  etc. ;  but  no  excuse  could  be  admitted; 
produce  I  must.  It  was  read  and  repeated ;  Watson  and  Osborne 
gave  up  the  contest,  and  joined  in  applauding  it.  Ralph  only 
made  some  criticisms,  and  proposed  some  amendments;  but  I 
defended  my  text.  Osborne  was  against  Ralph,  and  told  him 
he  was  no  better  a  critic  than  poet,  so  he  dropped  the  argument. 
As  they  two  went  home  together,  Osborne  expressed  himself 
still  more  strongly  in  favor  of  what  he  thought  my  production; 
having  restrained  himself  before,  as  he  said,  lest  I  should  think 
it  flattery.  ''But  who  would  have  imagined,"  said  he,  "that 
Franklin  had  been  capable  of  such  a  performance ;  such  paint- 
ing, such  force,  such  fire!  He  has  even  improved  the  original. 
In  his  common  conversation  he  seems  to  have  no  choice  of 
words;  he  hesitates  and  blunders;  and  yet,  good  God!  how  he 
writes!"  When  we  next  met,  Ralph  discovered  the  trick  we 
had  played  him,  and  Osborne  was  a  Httle  laughed  at. 

This  transaction  fixed  Ralph  in  his  resolution  of  becoming  a 
■poet.  I  did  all  I  could  to  dissuade  him  from  it,  but  he  continued 
scribbhng  verses  till  Pope  cured  him.^  He  became,  however,  a 
pretty  good  prose  writer.  More  of  him  hereafter.  But,  as  I 
may  not  have  occasion  again  to  mention  the  other  two,  I  shall 
just  remark  here,  that  Watson  died  in  my  arms  a  few  years 
aiter,  much  lamented,  being  the  best  of  our  set.  Osborne  went 
to  the  West  Indies,  where  he  became  an  eminent  lawyer  and 
made  money,  but  died  young.  He  and  I  had  made  a  serious 
agreement,  that  the  one  who  happened  first  to  die  should,  if 
possible,  make  a  friendly  visit  to  the  other,  and  acquaint  him 
howihe  found  things  in  that  separate  state.  But  he  never  ful- 
filled his  promise. 

The 'governor,  seeming  to  Hke  my  company,  had  me  fre- 

1  "Silence,  ye  wolves!  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howls, 
And  makes  Night  hideous  —  answer  him,  ye  owls." 

(Pope,  Dunciad.) 


AUTOBIOGR.\PHY  35 

quently  to  his  house,  and  his  setting  me  up  was  always  men- 
tioned as  a  fixed  thing.  I  was  to  take  with  me  letters  recom- 
mendatory to  a  number  of  his  friends,  besides  the  letter  of 
credit  to  furnish  me  with  the  necessary  money  for  purchasing 
the  press  and  types,  paper,  etc.  For  these  letters  I  was  ap- 
pointed to  call  at  different  times,  when  they  were  to  be  ready; 
but  a  future  time  was  still  named.  Thus  he  went  on  till  the 
ship,  whose  departure  too  had  been  several  times  postponed, 
was  on  the  point  of  sailing.  Then,  when  I  called  to  take  my 
leave  and  receive  the  letters,  his  secretary.  Dr.  Bard,  came  out 
to  me  and  said  the  governor  was  extremely  busy  in  writing,  but 
would  be  down  at  Newcastle  before  the  ship,  and  there  the  let- 
ters would  be  delivered  to  me. 

Ralph,  though  married,  and  ha\dng  one  child,  had  deter- 
mined to  accompany  me  in  this  voyage.  It  was  thought  he 
intended  to  establish  a  correspondence,  and  obtain  goods  to 
sell  on  commission;  but  I  found  afterwards,  that,  through  some 
discontent  with  his  wife's  relations,  he  purposed  to  leave  her  on 
their  hands,  and  never  return  again.  Having  taken  leave  of 
my  friends,  and  interchanged  some  promises  with  Miss  Read, 
I  left  Philadelphia  in  the  ship,  which  anchored  at  Newcastle. 
The  governor  was  there;  but  when  I  went  to  his  lodging,  the 
secretary  came  to  me  from  him  with  the  civilest  message  in  the 
world,  that  he  could  not  then  see  me,  being  engaged  in  business 
of  the  utmost  importance,  but  should  send  the  letters  to  me 
on  board,  wished  me  heartily  a  good  voyage  and  a  speedy 
return,  etc.  I  returned  on  board  a  little  puzzled,  but  still  not 
doubting. 

Mr.  Andrew  Hamilton,  a  famous  lawyer  of  Philadelphia,  had 
taken  passage  in  the  same  ship  for  himself  and  son,  and  with 
Mr.  Denham,  a  Quaker  merchant,  and  Messrs.  Onion  and 
Russel,  masters  of  an  iron  work  in  Maryland,  had  engaged  the 
great  cabin;  so  that  Ralph  and  I  were  forced  to  take  up  with  a 
berth  in  the  steerage,  and  none  on  board  knowing  us,  were  con- 
sidered as  ordinary  persons.  But  Mr.  Hamilton  and  his  son 
(it  was  James,  since  governor)  returned  from  Newcastle  to 
Philadelphia,  the  father  being  recalled  by  a  great  fee  to  plead 
for  a  seized  ship;  and,  just  before  we  sailed.  Colonel  French 
coming  on  board,  and  showing  me  great  respect,  I  was  more 
taken  notice  of,  and,  with  my  friend  Ralph,  invited  by  the 


36  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

other  gentlemen  to  come  into  the  cabin,  there  being  now  room. 
Accordingly,  we  removed  thither. 

Understanding  that  Colonel  French  had  brought  on  board 
the  governor's  dispatches,  I  asked  the  captain  for  those  letters 
that  were  to  be  under  my  care.  He  said  all  were  put  into  the 
bag  together  and  he  could  not  then  come  at  them;  but,  before 
we  landed  in  England,  I  should  have  an  opportunity  of  picking 
them  out,  so  I  was  satisfied  for  the  present,  and  we  proceeded 
on  our  voyage.  We  had  a  sociable  company  in  the  cabin,  and 
lived  uncommonly  well,  having  the  addition  of  all  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton's stores,  who  had  laid  in  plentifully.  In  this  passage  Mr. 
Denham  contracted  a  friendship  for  me  that  continued  during 
his  life.  The  voyage  was  otherwise  not  a  pleasant  one,  as  we 
had  a  great  deal  of  bad  weather. 

When  we  came  into  the  Channel,  the  captain  kept  his  word 
with  me,  and  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  examining  the  bag  for 
the  governor's  letters.  I  found  none  upon  which  my  name  was 
put  as  under  my  care.  I  picked  out  six  or  seven,  that,  by  the 
handwriting,  I  thought  might  be  the  promised  letters,  espe- 
cially as  one  of  them  was  directed  to  Basket,  the  king's  printer, 
and  another  to  some  stationer.  We  arrived  in  London  the  24th 
of  December,  1724.  I  waited  upon  the  stationer,  who  came  first 
in  my  way,  delivering  the  letter  as  from  Governor  Keith.  *'I 
don't  know  such  a  person,"  says  he;  but,  opening  the  letter, 
"Oh!  thjs  is  from  Riddlesden.  I  have  lately  found  him  to  be  a 
complete  rascal,  and  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  nor 
receive  any  letters  from  him."  So,  putting  the  letter  into  my 
hand,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  me  to  serve  some  customer. 
I  was  surprised  to  find  these  were  not  the  governor's  letters; 
and,  after  recollecting  and  comparing  circumstances,  I  began 
to  doubt  his  sincerity.  I  found  my  friend  Denham,  and  opened 
the  whole  affair  to  him.  He  let  me  into  Keith's  character;  told 
me  there  was  not  the  least  probability  that  he  had  written  any 
letters  for  me;  that  no  one,  who  knew  him,  had  the  smallest 
dependence  on  him ;  and  he  laughed  at  the  notion  of  the  gover- 
nor's giving  me  a  letter  of  credit,  having,  as  he  said,  no  credit 
to  give.  On  my  expressing  some  concern  about  what  I  should 
do,  he  advised  me  to  endeavor  getting  some  employment  in  the 
way  of  my  business.  "Among  the  printers  here,"  said  he,  "you 
will  improve  yourself,  and  when  you  return  to  America,  you 
will  set  up  to  greater  advantage." 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  37 

We  both  of  us  happened  to  know,  as  well  as  the  stationer, 
that  Riddlesden,  the  attorney,  was  a  very  knave*.  He  had  half 
ruined  Miss  Read's  father  by  persuading  him  to  be  bound  for 
him.^  By  this  letter  it  appeared  there  was  a  secret  scheme  on 
foot  to  the  prejudice  of  Hamilton  (supposed  to  be  then  coming 
over  with  us) ;  and  that  Keith  was  concerned  in  it  with  Riddles- 
den. Denham,  who  was  a  friend  of  Hamilton's,  thought  he 
ought  to  be  acquainted  with  it;  so,  when  he  arrived  in  England, 
which  was  soon  after,  partly  from  resentment  and  ill-will  to 
Keith  and  Riddlesden,  and  partly  from  good-will  to  him,  I 
waited  on  him,  and  gave  him  the  letter.  He  thanked  me  cor- 
dially, the  information  being  of  importance  to  him;  and  from 
that  time  he  became  my  friend,  greatly  to  my  advantage  after- 
wards on  many  occasions. 

But  what  shall  we  think  of  a  governor's  playing  such  pitiful 
tricks,  and  imposing  so  grossly  on  a  poor  ignorant  boy !  It  was 
a  habit  he  had  acquired.  He  wished  to  please  everybody;  and, 
having  little  to  give,  he  gave  expectations.  He  was  otherwise 
an  ingenious,  sensible  man,  a  pretty  good  writer,  and  a  good 
governor  for  the  people,  though  not  for  his  constituents,  the 
proprietaries,  whose  instructions  he  sometimes  disregarded. 
Several  of  our  best  laws  were  of  his  planning  and  passed  during 
his  administration. 

^  That  is,  to  give  security  for  the  payment  of  a  note. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 
PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG^ 

IN  WHICH  THE  TROUBLES  OF  NEW  AMSTERDAM  APPEAR  TO 
THICKEN  —  SHOWING  THE  BRAVERY,  IN  TIME  OF  PERIL, 
OF  A  PEOPLE  WHO  DEFEND  THEMSELVES  BY  RESOLUTION 

Like  as  an  assemblage  of  belligerent  cats,  gibbering  and 
caterwauling,  eying  one  another  with  hideous  grimaces  and 
contortions,  spitting  in  each  other's  faces,  and  on  the  point  of 
a  general  clapper-clawing,  are  suddenly  put  to  scampering 
rout  and  confusion  by  the  appearance  of  a  house-dog,  so  was 
the  no  less  vociferous  council  of  New  Amsterdam  amazed, 

^  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York,  book  vii,  chapters  ix-xi.  Originally 
conceived  as  a  burlesque  of  the  ponderous  Picture  of  New  York  by  Dr.  Samuel 
Latham  Mitchill,  the  book  was  written  soon  after  Salmagundi  and  published  in 
December,  1809,  with  the  following  title:  A  History  of  New  York,  from  the 
Beginning  of  the  World  to  the  End  of  the  Dutch  Dynasty;  Containing  among  many 
Surprising  and  Curious  Matters,  the  Unutterable  Ponderings  of  Walter  the  Doubter, 
The  Disastrous  Projects  of  William  the  Testy,  and  the  Chivalric  Achievements  of 
Peter  the  Headstrong;  the  Three  Dutch  Governors  of  New  Amsterdam:  Being  the 
Only  Authentic  History  of  the  Times  that  ever  hath  been  or  ever  will  be  Published: 
By  Dietrich  Knickerbocker.  This  "Dietrich  Knickerbocker"  was,  ostensibly,  a 
New  Yorker,  "a  small,  elderly  gentleman,  not  entirely  in  his  right  mind,"  whose 
mysterious  disappearance  was  noticed  by  the  New  York  Evening  Post  (really  by 
Irving),  in  the  month  preceding  publication  of  the  History.  The  hoax  at  first 
succeeded  —  the  book  was  accepted  as  veracious  history;  then  followed  uproari- 
ous delight  mingled  with  wrath,  the  descendants  of  the  Dutch  feeling  themselves 
outraged.  The  mild  Irving,  however,  had  a  most  innocent  purpose  in  writing 
the  book:  "It  was,"  he  says,  "to  embody  the  traditions  of  our  city  in  an  amus- 
ing form;  to  illustrate  its  local  humors,  customs,  and  peculiarities;  to  clothe  home 
scenes  and  places  and  familiar  names  with  those  imaginative  and  whimsical 
associations  so  seldom  met  with  in  our  new  country,  but  which  live  like  spells 
and  charms  abmit  the  cities  of  the  old  world,  binding  the  heart  of  the  native 
inhabitant  to  his  home."  It  also  contains,  however,  incidental  satire  of  con- 
temporary political  Kfe  in  America. 

The  chapters  here  printed  form  part  of  the  extended  account  of  the  reign  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  governor  of  New  Netherlands  from  1647  to  1664,  "a  tough, 
sturdy,  valiant,  weather-beaten,  mettlesome,  obstinate,  leathern-sided,  lion- 
hearted,  generous-spirited  old  governor"  with  a  wooden  leg  "of  which  he  was  so 
proud,  that  he  was  often  heard  to  declare  he  valued  it  more  than  all  his  other 
limbs  put  together."  The  theme  of  book  vii  is  "The  Third  Part  of  the  Reign  of 
Peter  the  Headstrong  —  His  Troubles  with  the  British  Nation,  and  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Dutch  Dynasty." 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  39 

astounded,  and  totally  dispersed,  by  the  sudden  arrival  of  the 
enemy.  Every  member  waddled  home  as  fast  as  his  short  legs 
could  carry  him,  wheezing  as  he  went  with  corpulency  and 
terror.  Arrived  at  his  castle,  he  barricadoed  the  street-door, 
and  buried  himself  in  the  cider-cellar,  without  venturing  to 
peep  out,  lest  he  should  have  his  head  carried  off  by  a  cannon- 
baU. 

The  sovereign  people  crowded  into  the  market-place,  herd- 
ing together  with  the  instinct  of  sheep,  who  seek  safety  in  each 
other's  company  when  the  shepherd  and  his  dog  are  absent,  and 
the  wolf  is  prowling  round  the  fold.  Far  from  finding  relief, 
however,  they  only  increased  each  other's  terrors.  Each  man 
looked  ruefully  in  his  neighbor's  face,  in  search  of  encourage- 
ment, but  only  found  in  its  woe-begone  lineaments  a  confirma- 
tion of  his  own  dismay.  Not  a  word  now  was  to  be  heard  of 
conquering  Great  Britain,  not  a  whisper  about  the  sovereign 
virtues  of  economy,  —  while  the  old  women  heightened  the 
general  gloom  by  clamorously  bewailing  their  fate,  and  calling 
for  protection  on  St.  Nicholas  and  Peter  Stuyvesant. 

Oh,  how  did  they  bewail  the  absence  of  the  lion-hearted 
Peter!  and  how  did  they  long  for  the  comforting  presence  of 
Antony  Van  Corlear!  Indeed,  a  gloomy  uncertainty  hung  over 
the  fate  of  these  adventurous  heroes.  Day  after  day  had  elapsed 
since  the  alarming  message  from  the  governor,  without  bring- 
ing any  further  tidings  of  his  safety.  Many  a  fearful  conjecture 
was  hazarded  as  to  what  had  befallen  him  and  his  loyal  squire. 
Had  they  not  been  devoured  alive  by  the  cannibals  of  Marble- 
head  and  Cape  Cod?  —  had  they  not  been  put  to  the  question 
by  the  great  council  of  Amphictyons?  —  had  they  not  been 
smothered  in  onions  by  the  terrible  men  of  Pyquag?  In  the 
midst  of  this  consternation  and  perplexity,  when  horror,  like  a 
mighty  nightmare,  sat  brooding  upon  the  little,  fat,  plethoric 
city  of  New  Amsterdam,  the  ears  of  the  multitude  were  sud- 
denly startled  by  the  distant  sound  of  a  trumpet :  it  approached, 
it  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  now  it  resounded  at  the  city 
gate.  The  public  could  not  be  mistaken  in  the  well-known 
sound;  a  shout  of  joy  burst  from  their  lips,  as  the  gallant  Peter, 
covered  with  dust,  and  followed  by  his  faithful  trumpeter,  came 
galloping  into  the  market-place. 

The  first  transports  of  the  populace  having  subsided,  they 


40  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

gathered  round  the  honest  Antony,  as  he  dismounted,  over- 
whelming him  with  greetings  and  congratulations.  In  breath- 
less accents  he  related  to  them  the  marvellous  adventures 
through  which  the  old  governor  and  himself  had  gone,  in  mak- 
ing their  escape  from  the  clutches  of  the  terrible  Amphictyons. 
But  though  the  Stuyvesant  manuscript,  with  its  customary 
minuteness  where  anything  touching  the  great  Peter  is  con- 
cerned, is  very  particular  as  to  the  incidents  of  this  masterly 
retreat,  the  state  of  the  public  affairs  will  not  allow  me  to  in- 
dulge in  a  full  recital  thereof.  Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that,  while 
Peter  Stuyvesant  was  anxiously  revolving  in  his  mind  how  he 
could  make  good  his  escape  with  honor  and  dignity,  certain  of 
the  ships  sent  out  for  the  conquest  of  the  Manhattoes  touched 
at  the  eastern  ports  to  obtain  supplies,  and  to  call  on  the  grand 
council  of  the  league  for  its  promised  cooperation.  Upon  hear- 
ing of  this,  the  vigilant  Peter,  perceiving  that  a  moment's  delay 
were  fatal,  made  a  secret  and  precipitate  decampment;  though 
much  did  it  grieve  his  lofty  soul  to  be  obliged  to  turn  his  back 
even  upon  a  nation  of  foes.  Many  hair-breadth  'scapes  and 
divers  perilous  mishaps  did  they  sustain,  as  they  scoured,  with- 
out sound  of  trumpet,  through  the  fair  regions  of  the  east. 
Already  was  the  country  in  an  uproar  with  hostile  preparations, 
and  they  were  obliged  to  take  a  large  circuit  in  their  flight,  lurk- 
ing along  through  the  woody  mountains  of  the  Devil's  back- 
bone; whence  the  valiant  Peter  salKed  forth  one  day  like  a  lion, 
and  put  to  rout  a  whole  legion  of  squatters,  consisting  of  three 
generations  of  a  prolific  family,  who  were  already  on  their  way 
to  take  possession  of  some  corner  of  the  New  Netherlands. 
Nay,  the  faithful  Antony  had  great  difiiculty,  at  sundry  times, 
to  prevent  him,  in  the  excess  of  his  wrath,  from  descending 
down  from  the  mountains,  and  falling,  sword  in  hand,  upon 
certain  of  the  border-towns,  who  were  marshalling  forth  their 
draggle-tailed  militia. 

The  first  movement  of  the  governor,  on  reaching  his  dwell- 
ing, was  to  mount  the  roof,  whence  he  contemplated  with  rueful 
aspect  the  hostile  squadron.  This  had  already  come  to  anchor 
in  the  bay,  and  consisted  of  two  stout  frigates,  having  on  board, 
as  John  Josselyn,  Gent.,^  informs  us,  ^Hhree  hundred  valiant 

*  An  Englishman  of  the  seventeenth  century,  who,  after  visiting  America, 
recorded  his  impressions  in  two  books. 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  41 

red-coats."  Having  taken  this  survey,  he  sat  himself  down  and 
wrote  an  epistle  to  the  commander,  demanding  the  reason  of 
his  anchoring  in  the  harbor  without  obtaining  previous  per- 
mission so  to  do.  This  letter  was  couched  in  the  most  dignified 
and  courteous  terms,  though  I  have  it  from  undoubted  author- 
ity that  his  teeth  were  clinched,  and  he  had  a  bitter,  sardonic 
grin  upon  his  visage  all  the  while  he  wrote.  Having  dispatched 
his  letter,  the  grim  Peter  stumped  to  and  fro  about  the  town 
with  a  most  war-betokening  countenance,  his  hands  thrust 
into  his  breeches-pockets,  and  whistling  a  Low-Dutch  psalm- 
tune,  which  bore  no  small  resemblance  to  the  music  of  a  north- 
east wind,  when  a  storm  is  brewing.  The  very  dogs  as  they  eyed 
him  skulked  away  in  dismay ;  while  all  the  old  and  ugly  women 
of  New  Amsterdam  ran  howUng  at  his  heels,  imploring  him  to 
save  them  from  murder,  robbery,  and  pitiless  ravishment! 

The  reply  of  Colonel  Nicholas,  who  commanded  the  invaders, 
was  couched  in  terms  of  equal  courtesy  with  the  letter  of  the 
governor;  declaring  the  right  and  title  of  his  British  Majesty 
to  the  province;  where  he  affirmed  the  Dutch  to  be  mere  inter- 
lopers; and  demanding  that  the  town,  forts,  etc..  should  be 
forthwith  rendered  into  his  Majesty's  obedience  and  protection; 
promising,  at  the  same  time,  life,  Hberty,  estate,  and  free  trade 
to  every  Dutch  denizen  who  should  readily  submit  to  his 
Majesty's  government. 

Peter  Stuyvesant  read  over  this  friendly  epistle  with  some 
such  harmony  of  aspect  as  we  may  suppose  a  crusty  farmer 
reads  the  loving  letter  of  John  Stiles,^  warning  him  of  an  action 
of  ejectment.  He  was  not,  however,  to  be  taken  by  surprise; 
but,  thrusting  the  summons  into  his  breeches-pocket,  stalked 
three  times  across  the  room,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  with  great 
vehemence,  and  then,  loftily  waving  his  hand,  promised  to 
send  an  answer  the  next  morning.  He  now  summoned  a  general 
meeting  of  his  privy  councillors  and  burgomasters,  not  to  ask 
their  advice,  for,  confident  in  his  own  strong  head,  he  needed 
no  man's  counsel,  but  apparently  to  give  them  a  piece  of  his 
mind  on  their  late  craven  conduct. 

His  orders  being  duly  promulgated,  it  was  a  piteous  sight  to 
behold  the  late  valiant  burgomasters,  who  had  demoHshed  the 
whole  British  empire  in  their  harangues,  peeping  ruefully  out 
*  A  fictitious  name,  similar  in  function  to  John  Doe. 


4a  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

of  their  hiding-places;  crawling  cautiously  forth;  dodging 
through  narrow  lanes  and  alleys;  starting  at  every  little  dog 
that  barked;  mistaking  lamp-posts  for  British  grenadiers;  and, 
in  the  excess  of  their  panic,  metamorphosing  pumps  into  for- 
midable soldiers  levelling  blunderbusses  at  their  bosoms !  Hav- 
ing, however,  in  despite  of  numerous  perils  and  difficulties  of 
the  kind,  arrived  safe,  without  the  loss  of  a  single  man,  at  the 
hall  of  assembly,  they  took  their  seats,  and  awaited  in  fearful 
silence  the  arrival  of  the  governor.  In  a  few  moments  the 
wooden  leg  of  the  intrepid  Peter  was  heard  in  regular  and  stout- 
hearted thumps  upon  the  staircase.  He  entered  the  chamber, 
arrayed  in  full  suit  of  regimentals,  and  carrying  his  trusty 
toledo,  not  girded  on  his  thigh,  but  tucked  under  his  arm.  As 
the  governor  never  equipped  himself  in  this  portentous  manner 
unless  something  of  martial  nature  were  working  within  his 
pericranium,  his  council  regarded  him  ruefully,  as  if  they  saw 
fire  and  sword  in  his  iron  countenance,  and  forgot  to  light  their 
pipes  in  breathless  suspense. 

His  first  words  were,  to  rate  his  council  soundly  for  having 
wasted  in  idle  debate  and  party  feud  the  time  which  should 
have  been  devoted  to  putting  the  city  in  a  state  of  defence. 
He  was  particularly  indignant  at  those  brawlers  who  had  dis- 
graced the  councils  of  the  province  by  empty  bickerings  and 
scurrilous  invectives  against  an  absent  enemy.  He  now  called 
upon  them  to  make  good  their  words  by  deeds,  as  the  enemy 
they  had  defied  and  derided  was  at  the  gate.  Finally,  he  in- 
formed them  of  the  summons  he  had  received  to  surrender,  but 
concluded  by  swearing  to  defend  the  province  as  long  as 
Heaven  was  on  his  side  and  he  had  a  wooden  leg  to  stand  upon; 
which  warlike  sentence  he  emphasized  by  a  thwack  with  the 
flat  of  his  sword  upon  the  table,  that  quite  electrified  his 
auditors. 

The  privy  councillors,  who  had  long  since  been  brought  into 
as  perfect  discipHne  as  were  ever  the  soldiers  of  the  great 
Frederick,  knew  there  was  no  use  in  saying  a  word,  —  so  lighted 
their  pipes,  and  smoked  away  in  silence,  like  fat  and  discreet 
councillors.  But  the  burgomasters,  being  inflated  with  consid- 
erable importance  and  self-sufficiency,  acquired  at  popular 
meetings,  were  not  so  easily  satisfied.  Mustering  up  fresh 
spirit,  when  they  found  there  was  some  chance  of  escaping  from 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  43 

their  present  jeopardy  without  the  disagreeable  alternative  of 
fighting,  they  requested  a  copy  of  the  summons  to  surrender, 
that  they  might  show  it  to  a  general  meeting  of  the  people. 

So  insolent  and  mutinous  a  request  would  have  been  enough 
to  have  roused  the  gorge  of  the  tranquil  Van  Twiller  himself,  — 
what  then  must  have  been  its  effect  upon  the  great  Stuyvesant, 
who  was  not  only  a  Dutchman,  a  governor  and  a  valiant 
wooden-legged  soldier  to  boot,  but  withal  a  man  of  the  most 
stomachful  and  gunpowder  disposition?  He  burst  forth  into  a 
blaze  of  indignation,  —  swore  not  a  mother's  son  of  them 
should  see  a  syllable  of  it,  —  that  as  to  their  advice  or  concur- 
rence, he  did  not  care  a  whiff  of  tobacco  for  either,  —  that  they 
might  go  home,  and  go  to  bed  like  old  women;  for  he  was  deter- 
mined to  defend  the  colony  himself,  without  the  assistance  of 
them  or  their  adherents!  So  saying  he  tucked  his  sword  under 
his  arm,  cocked  his  hat  upon  his  head,  and  girding  up  his  loins, 
stumped  indignantly  out  of  the  council-chamber,  everybody 
making  room  for  him  as  he  passed. 

No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  the  busy  burgomasters  called  a 
public  meeting  in  front  of  the  Stadthouse,  where  they  appointed 
as  chairman  one  Dofue  Roerback,  formerly  a  meddlesome 
member  of  the  cabinet  during  the  reign  of  William  the  Testy, 
but  kicked  out  of  office  by  Peter  Stu>^^esant  on  taking  the  reins 
of  government.  He  was,  withal,  a  mighty  gingerbread  baker 
in  the  land,  and  reverenced  by  the  populace  as  a  man  of  dark 
knowledge,  seeing  that  he  was  the  first  to  imprint  New- Year 
cakes  with  the  mysterious  hieroglyphics  of  the  Cock  and 
Breeches,  and  such  like  magical  devices. 

This  burgomaster,  who  still  chewed  the  cud  of  ill-will  against 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  addressed  the  multitude  in  what  is  called 
a  patriotic  speech,  informing  them  of  the  courteous  summons 
which  the  governor  had  received,  to  surrender,  of  his  refusal  to 
comply  therewith,  and  of  his  denying  the  public  even  a  sight  of 
the  summons,  which  doubtless  contained  conditions  highly  to 
the  honor  and  advantage  of  the  province. 

He  then  proceeded  to  speak  of  his  Excellency  in  high- 
sounding  terms  of  vituperation,  suited  to  the  dignity  of  his 
station;  comparing  him  to  Nero,  CaHgula,  and  other  flagrant 
great  men  of  yore;  assuring  the  people  that  the  history  of  the 
world  did  not  contain  a  despotic  outrage  equal  to  the  present. 


44  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

That  it  would  be  recorded  in  letters  of  fire,  on  the  blood-stained 
tablet  of  history !  That  ages  would  roll  back  with  sudden  horror 
when  they  came  to  view  it!  That  the  womb  of  time  (by  the 
way,  your  orators  and  writers  take  strange  liberties  with  the 
womb  of  time,  though  some  would  fain  have  us  believe  that 
time  is  an  old  gentleman)  —  that  the  womb  of  time,  pregnant 
as  it  was  with  direful  horrors,  would  never  produce  a  parallel 
enormity!  —  with  a  variety  of  other  heart-rending,  soul-stirring 
tropes  and  figures,  which  I  cannot  enumerate;  neither,  indeed, 
need  I,  for  they  were  of  the  kind  which  even  to  the  present  day 
form  the  style  of  popular  harangues  and  patriotic  orations,  and 
maybe  classed  in  rhetoric  under  the  general  title  of  Rigmarole. 
The  result  of  this  speech  of  the  inspired  burgomaster  was 
a  memorial  addressed  to  the  governor,  remonstrating  in  good 
round  terms  on  his  conduct.  It  was  proposed  that  Dofue  Roer- 
back  himself  should  be  the  bearer  of  this  memorial;  but  this 
he  warily  declined,  having  no  inclination  of  coming  again 
within  kicking  distance  of  his  Excellency.  Who  did  deliver  it 
has  never  been  named  in  history,  in  which  neglect  he  has  suf- 
fered grievous  wrong;  seeing  that  he  was  equally  worthy  of 
blazon  with  him  perpetuated  in  Scottish  song  and  story  by 
the  surname  of  Bell-the-cat.^  All  we  know  of  the  fate  of  this 
memorial  is,  that  it  was  used  by  the  grim  Peter  to  light  his  pipe; 
which,  from  the  vehemence  with  which  he  smoked  it,  was  evi- 
dently anything  but  a  pipe  of  peace. 

CONTAINING  A  DOLEFUL  DISASTER  OF  ANTONY  THE  TRUMPETER, 
AND  HOW  PETER  STUYVESANT,  LIKE  A  SECOND  CROMWELL, 
SUDDENLY  DISSOLVED  A  RUMP  PARLIAMENT 

Now  did  the  high-minded  Pieter  de  Groodt  shower  down  a 
pannier-load  of  maledictions  upon  his  burgomasters  for  a  set 
of  self-willed,  obstinate,  factious  varlets,  who  would  neither 
be  convinced  nor  persuaded.  Nor  did  he  omit  to  bestow  some 
left-handed  compliments  upon  the  sovereign  people,  as  a  herd 
of  poltroons,  who  had  no  relish  for  the  glorious  hardships  and 
illustrious  misadventures  of  battle,  but  would  rather  stay  at 
home,  and  eat  and  sleep  in  ignoble  ease,  than  fight  in  a  ditch 
for  immortality  and  a  broken  head. 

*  Archibald  Douglas,  Earl  of  Angus. 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  45 

Resolutely  bent,  however,  upon  defending  his  beloved  city, 
in  despite  even  of  itself,  he  called  unto  him  his  trusty  Van 
Corlear,  who  was  his  right-hand  man  in  all  times  of  emergency. 
Him  did  he  adjure  to  take  his  war-denouncing  trump)et,  and 
mounting  his  horse,  to  beat  up  the  countr\'  night  and  day,  — 
sounding  the  alarm  along  the  pastoral  borders  of  the  Bronx,  — 
startling  the  wild  solitudes  of  Croton  —  arousing  the  rugged 
yeomanry  of  Weehawk  and  Hoboken,  —  the  mighty  men  of 
battle  of  Tappan  Bay,  —  and  the  brave  boys  of  Tarr>'-Town, 
Petticoat-Lane,  and  Sleepy-HoUow,  —  charging  them  one  and 
all  to  sling  their  powder-horns,  shoulder  their  fowling-pieces, 
and  march  merrUy  down  to  the  ^Manhattoes. 

Now  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  world,  the  divine  sex  ex- 
cepted, that  Antony  Van  Corlear  loved  better  than  errands 
of  this  kind.  So  just  stopping  to  take  a  lust}'  dinner,  and  brac- 
ing to  his  side  his  junk-bottle,  well  charged  with  heart-inspiring 
Hollands,  he  issued  jollily  from  the  city  gate,  which  looked  out 
upon  what  is  at  present  called  Broadway,  sounding  a  farewell 
strain,  that  rung  in  sprightly  echoes  through  the  winding 
streets  of  New  Amsterdam.  Alas  I  never  more  were  they  to  be 
gladdened  by  the  melody  of  their  favorite  trumpeter! 

It  was  a  dark  and  stormy  night  when  the  good  Antony 
arrived  at  the  creek  (sagely  denominated  Haerlem  river)  which 
separates  the  island  of  Manna-hata  from  the  mainland.  The 
wind  was  high,  the  elements  were  in  an  uproar,  and  no  Charon 
could  be  found  to  ferry  the  adventurous  sounder  of  brass  across 
the  water.  For  a  short  time  he  vapored  like  an  impatient  ghost 
upon  the  brink,  and  then  bethinking  himself  of  the  urgency  of 
his  errand,  took  a  hearty  embrace  of  his  stone  bottle,  swore  most 
valorously  that  he  would  swim  across  in  spite  of  the  devil! 
(Spyt  den  Duyvell)  and  daringly  plunged  into  the  stream. 
Luckless  Antony  I  Scarce  had  he  buffeted  half-way  over  when 
he  was  observed  to  struggle  violently,  as  if  battling  with  the 
spirit  of  the  waters,  —  instinctively  he  put  his  trumpet  to  his 
mouth,  and  giving  a  vehement  blast  —  sank  forever  to  the 
bottom ! 

The  clangor  of  his  trumpet,  like  that  of  the  ivory  horn  of  the 
renowned  Paladin  Orlando,^  when  expiring  in  the  glorious  field 
of  Roncesvalles,  rang  far  and  wide  through  the  country,  alarm- 
^  Roland,  hero  of  the  Chanson  de  Roland. 


46  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

ing  the  neighbors  round,  who  hurried  in  amazement  to  the 
spot.  Here  an  old  Dutch  burgher,  famed  for  his  veracity,  and 
who  had  been  a  witness  of  the  fact,  related  to  them  the  melan- 
choly affair;  with  the  fearful  addition  (to  which  I  am  slow  in 
giving  belief)  that  he  saw  the  duyvel,  in  the  shape  of  a  huge 
moss-bonker,  seize  the  sturdy  Antony  by  the  leg,  and  drag  him 
beneath  the  waves.  Certain  it  is,  the  place,  with  the  adjoining 
promontory,  which  projects  into  the  Hudson,  has  been  called 
Spyt  den  Duyvel  ever  since ;  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  Antony 
still  haunts  the  surrounding  solitudes,  and  his  trumpet  has 
often  been  heard  by  the  neighbors,  of  a  stormy  night,  mingling 
with  the  howling  of  the  blast.  Nobody  ever  attempts  to  swim 
across  the  creek  after  dark;  on  the  contrary,  a  bridge  has  been 
built  to  guard  against  such  melancholy  accidents  in  future ;  and 
as  to  the  moss-bonkers,  they  are  held  in  such  abhorrence,  that 
no  true  Dutchman  will  admit  them  to  his  table,  who  loves  good 
fish  and  hates  the  devil. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Antony  Van  Corlear,  —  a  man  deserv- 
ing of  a  better  fate.  He  lived  roundly  and  soundly,  like  a  true 
and  jolly  bachelor,  until  the  day  of  his  death;  but  though  he 
was  never  married,  yet  did  he  leave  behind  some  two  or  three 
dozen  children,  in  different  parts  of  the  country,  —  fine, 
chubby,  brawling,  flatulent  little  urchins;  from  whom,  if  legends 
speak  true  (and  they  are  not  apt  to  lie),  did  descend  the  innu- 
merable race  of  editors,  who  people  and  defend  this  country, 
and  who  are  bountifully  paid  by  the  people  for  keeping  up  a 
constant  alarm  —  and  making  them  miserable. 

As  some  way-worn  pilgrim,  when  the  tempest  whistles 
through  his  locks,  and  night  is  gathering  round,  beholds  his 
faithful  dog,  the  companion  and  solace  of  his  journeying, 
stretched  lifeless  at  his  feet,  so  did  the  generous-hearted  hero 
of  the  Manhattoes  contemplate  the  untimely  end  of  Antony 
Van  Corlear.  He  had  been  the  faithful  attendant  of  his  foot- 
steps ;  he  had  charmed  him  in  many  a  weary  hour  by  his  honest 
gayety  and  the  martial  melody  of  his  trumpet,  and  had  fol- 
lowed him  with  unflinching  loyalty  and  affection  through  many 
a  scene  of  direful  peril  and  mishap.  He  was  gone  forever!  and 
that,  too,  at  a  moment  when  every  mongrel  cur  was  skulking 
from  his  side.  This  —  Peter  Stuyvesant  —  was  the  moment  to 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  47 

try  thy  fortitude;  and  this  was  the  moment  when  thou  didst 
indeed  shine  forth  Peter  the  Headstrong! 

The  glare  of  day  had  long  dispelled  the  horrors  of  the  stormy 
night ;  still  all  was  dull  and  gloomy.  The  late  jovial  Apollo  hid 
his  face  behind  lugubrious  clouds,  peeping  out  now  and  then 
for  an  instant,  as  if  anxious,  yet  fearful,  to  see  what  was  going 
on  in  his  favorite  city.  This  was  the  eventful  morning  when  the 
great  Peter  was  to  give  his  reply  to  the  summons  of  the  invad- 
ers. Already  was  he  closeted  with  his  privy  council,  sitting  in 
grim  state,  brooding  over  the  fate  of  his  favorite  trumpeter, 
and  anon  boiling  with  indignation  as  the  insolence  of  his  recre- 
ant burgomasters  flashed  upon  his  mind.  —  While  in  this  state 
of  irritation^  a  courier  arrived  in  all  haste  from  Winthrop,  the 
subtle  governor  of  Connecticut,  counselling  him,  in  the  most 
affectionate  and  disinterested  manner,  to  surrender  the  prov- 
ince, and  magnifying  the  dangers  and  calamities  to  which  a 
refusal  would  subject  him.  —  What  a  moment  was  this  to  in- 
trude officious  advice  upon  a  man  who  never  took  advice  in  his 
whole  life !  —  The  fiery  old  governor  strode  up  and  down  the 
chamber  with  a  vehemence  that  made  the  bosoms  of  his  coun- 
cillors to  quake  with  awe,  —  railing  at  his  unlucky  fate,  that 
thus  made  him  the  constant  butt  of  factious  subjects,  and 
Jesuitical  advisers. 

Just  at  this  ill-chosen  juncture,  the  officious  burgomasters, 
who  had  heard  of  the  arrival  of  mysterious  dispatches,  came 
marching  in  a  body  into  the  room,  with  a  legion  of  schepens 
and  toad-eaters  at  their  heels,  and  abruptly  demanded  a  peru- 
sal of  the  letter.  This  was  too  much  for  the  spleen  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant.  He  tore  the  letter  in  a  thousand  pieces,  —  threw 
it  in  the  face  of  the  nearest  burgomaster,  —  broke  his  pipe  over 
the  head  of  the  next,  —  hurled  his  spitting-box  at  an  unlucky 
schepen,  who  was  just  retreating  out  at  the  door,  and  finally 
prorogued  the  whole  meeting  sine  die,  by  kicking  them  down- 
stairs w4th  his  wooden  leg. 

As  soon  as  the  burgomasters  could  recover  from  their  con- 
fusion and  had  time  to  breathe,  they  called  a  public  meeting, 
where  they  related  at  full  length,  and  with  appropriate  coloring 
and  exaggeration,  the  despotic  and  vindictive  deportment  of 
the  governor;  declaring  that,  for  their  own  parts,  they  did  not 
value  a  straw  the  being  kicked,  cuffed,  and  mauled  by  the  tim- 


48  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

ber  toe  of  his  Excellency,  but  that  they  felt  for  the  dignity  of 
the  sovereign  people,  thus  rudely  insulted  by  the  outrage  com- 
mitted on  the  seat  of  honor  of  their  representatives.  The  latter 
part  of  the  harangue  came  home  at  once  to  that  delicacy  of 
feeling  and  jealous  pride  of  character  vested  in  all  true  mobs, 

—  who,  though  they  may  bear  injuries  without  a  murmur,  yet 
are  marvellously  jealous  of  their  sovereign  dignity;  and  there  is 
no  knowing  to  what  act  of  resentment  they  might  have  been 
provoked,  had  they  not  been  somewhat  more  afraid  of  their 
sturdy  old  governor  than  they  were  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  English 

—  or  the  d — 1  himself. 


HOW  PETER  STUYVESANT  DEFENDED  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  AMSTER- 
DAM FOR  SEVERAL  DAYS,  BY  DINT  OF  THE  STRENGTH  OF 
HIS  HEAD 

There  is  something  exceedingly  sublime  and  melancholy  in 
the  spectacle  which  the  present  crisis  of  our  history  presents. 
An  illustrious  and  venerable  little  city,  —  the  metropohs  of  a 
vast  extent  of  uninhabited  country,  —  garrisoned  by  a  doughty 
host  of  orators,  chairmen,  committee-men,  burgomasters,  sche- 
pens,  and  old  women,  —  governed  by  a  determined  and  strong- 
headed  warrior,  and  fortified  by  mud  batteries,  paHsadoes,  and 
resolutions,  —  blockaded  by  sea,  beleaguered  by  land,  and 
threatened  with  direful  desolation  from  without,  while  its  very 
vitals  are  torn  with  internal  faction  and  commotion  I  Never 
did  historic  pen  record  a  page  of  more  complicated  distress, 
unless  it  be  the  strife  that  distracted  the  Israelites,  during  the 
siege  of  Jerusalem,  —  where  discordant  parties  were  cutting 
each  other's  throats,  at  the  moment  when  the  victorious  legions 
of  Titus  had  toppled  down  their  bulwarks,  and  were  carrying 
fire  and  sword  into  the  very  sanctum  sanctorum  of  the  temple. 

Governor  Stuyvesant  having  triumphantly  put  his  grand 
council  to  the  rout,  and  dehvered  himself  from  a  multitude  of 
impertinent  advisers,  dispatched  a  categorical  reply  to  the 
commanders  of  the  invading  squadron;  wherein  he  asserted 
the  right  and  title  of  their  High  Mightinesses  the  Lords  States 
General  to  the  province  of  New  Netherlands,  and  trusting  in 
the  righteousness  of  his  cause,  set  the  whole  British  nation  at 
defiance 1 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  49 

My  anxiety  to  extricate  my  readers  and  myself  from  these 
disastrous  scenes  prevents  me  from  giving  the  whole  of  this 
gallant  letter,  which  concluded  in  these  manly  and  affectionate 
terms:  — 

As  touching  the  threats  in  your  conclusion,  we  have  nothing  to 
answer,  only  that  we  fear  nothing  but  what  God  (who  is  as  just  as 
merciful)  shall  lay  upon  us;  all  things  being  in  his  gracious  disposal, 
and  we  may  as  well  be  preserved  by  him  with  small  forces  as  by  a 
great  army;  which  makes  us  to  wish  you  all  happiness  and  prosperity, 
and  recommend  you  to  his  protection.  My  lords,  your  thrice  humble 
and  affectionate  servant  and  friend, 

P.  Stuyvesant. 

Thus  having  thrown  his  gantlet,  the  brave  Peter  stuck  a 
pair  of  horse-pistols  in  his  belt,  girded  an  immense  powder- 
horn  on  his  side,  —  thrust  his  sound  leg  into  a  Hessian  boot, 
and  clapping  his  fierce  Kttle  war-hat  on  the  top  of  his  head,  — 
paraded  up  and  down  in  front  of  his  house,  determined  to  de- 
fend his  beloved  city  to  the  last. 

While  all  these  struggles  and  dissensions  were  prevailing  in 
the  unhappy  city  of  New  Amsterdam,  and  while  its  worthy  but 
ill-starred  governor  was  framing  the  above-quoted  letter,  the 
English  commanders  did  not  remain  idle.  They  had  agents 
secretly  employed  to  foment  the  fears  and  clamors  of  the  popu- 
lace; and  moreover  circulated  far  and  wide,  through  the  adja- 
cent country,  a  proclamation,  repeating  the  terms  they  had 
already  held  out  in  their  summons  to  surrender,  at  the  same 
time  beguiling  the  simple  Nederlanders  with  the  most  crafty 
and  conciliating  professions.  They  promised  that  every  man 
who  voluntarily  submitted  to  the  authority  of  his  British 
Majesty  should  retain  peaceful  possession  of  his  house,  his 
vrouw,  and  his  cabbage-garden.  That  he  should  be  suffered  to 
smoke  his  pipe,  speak  Dutch,  wear  as  many  breeches  as  he 
pleased,  and  import  bricks,  tiles,  and  stone  jugs  from  Holland, 
instead  of  manufacturing  them  on  the  spot.  That  he  should  on 
no  account  be  compelled  to  learn  the  English  language,  nor  eat 
codfish  on  Saturdays,  nor  keep  accounts  in  any  other  way  than 
by  casting  them  up  on  his  fingers,  and  chalking  them  down 
upon  the  crown  of  his  hat;  as  is  observed  among  the  Dutch 
yeomanry  at  the  present  day.  That  every  man  should  be 
allowed  quietly  to  inherit  his  father's  hat,  coat,  shoe-buckles, 


50  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

pipe,  and  every  other  personal -appendage;  and  that  no  man 
should  be  obliged  to  conform  to  any  improvements,  inventions, 
or  any  other  modem  innovations;  but,  on  the  contrary  should 
be  permitted  to  build  his  house,  follow  his  trade,  manage  his 
farm,  rear  his  hogs,  and  educate  his  children,  precisely  as  his 
ancestors  had  done  before  him  from  time  immemorial.  Finally, 
that  he  should  have  all  the  benefits  of  free  trade,  and  should 
not  be  required  to  acknowledge  any  other  saint  in  the  calendar 
than  St.  Nicholas,  who  should  thenceforward,  as  before,  be 
considered  the  tutelar  saint  of  the  city. 

These  terms,  as  may  be  supposed,  appeared  very  satisfactory 
to  the  people,  who  had  a  great  disposition  to  enjoy  their  prop- 
erty unmolested,  and  a  most  singular  aversion  to  engage  in  a 
contest,  where  they  could  gain  little  more  than  honor  and 
broken  heads,  —  the  first  of  which  they  held  in  philosophic 
indifference,  the  latter  in  utter  detestation.  By  these  insidious 
means,  therefore,  did  the  English  succeed  in  alienating  the 
confidence  and  affections  of  the  populace  from  their  gallant  old 
governor,  whom  they  considered  as  obstinately  bent  upon 
running  them  into  hideous  misadventures;  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  speak  their  minds  freely,  and  abuse  him  most  heartily  — 
behind  his  back. 

Like  as  a  mighty  grampus  when  assailed  and  buffeted  by 
roaring  waves  and  brawling  surges,  still  keeps  on  an  undeviat- 
ing  course,  rising  above  the  boisterous  billows,  spouting  and 
blowing  as  he  emerges,  —  so  did  the  inflexible  Peter  pursue, 
unwavering,  his  determined  career,  and  rise,  contemptuous, 
above  the  clamors  of  the  rabble. 

But  when  the  British  warriors  found  that  he  set  their  power 
at  defiance,  they  dispatched  recruiting  officers  to  Jamaica,  and 
Jericho,  and  Nineveh,  and  Quag,  and  Patchog,  and  all  those 
towns  on  Long  Island  which  had  been  subdued  of  yore  by 
Stoffel  Brinkerhoff;  stirring  up  the  progeny  of  Preserved  Fish, 
and  Determined  Cock,  and  those  other  New-England  squatters, 
to  assail  the  city  of  New  Amsterdam  by  land,  while  the  hostile 
ships  prepared  for  an  assault  by  water. 

The  streets  of  New  Amsterdam  now  presented  a  scene  of  wild 
dismay  and  consternation.  In  vain  did  Peter  Stuyvesant  order 
the  citizens  to  arm  and  assemble  on  the  Battery.  Blank  terror 
reigned  over  the  community.  The  whole  party  of  Short  Pipes 


PETER  THE  HEADSTRONG  51 

in  the  course  of  a  single 'night  had  changed  into  arrant  old 
women,  —  a  metamorphosis  only  to  be  paralleled  by  the  prodi- 
gies recorded  by  Livy  as  having  happened  at  Rome  at  the  ap- 
proach of  Hannibal,  when  statues  sweated  in  pure  affright, 
goats  were  converted  into  sheep,  and  cocks,  turning  into  hens, 
ran  cackling  about  the  street. 

Thus  baffled  in  all  attempts  to  put  the  city  in  a  state  of 
defence,  blockaded  from  without,  tormented  from  within,  and 
menaced  with  a  Yankee  invasion,  even  the  stiff-necked  will  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant  for  once  gave  way,  and  in  spite  of  his  mighty 
heart,  which  swelled  in  his  throat  until  it  nearly  choked  him, 
he  consented  to  a  treaty  of  surrender. 

Words  cannot  express  the  transports  of  the  populace,  on 
recei\ing  this  intelligence;  had  they  obtained  a  conquest  over 
their  enemies,  they  could  not  have  indulged  greater  delight. 
The  streets  resounded  with  their  congratulations,  —  they  ex- 
tolled their  governor  as  the  father  and  deliverer  of  his  country, 

—  they  crowded  to  his  house  to  testify  their  gratitude,  and 
were  ten  times  more  noisy  in  their  plaudits  than  when  he  re- 
turned, with  victory  perched  upon  his  beaver,  from  the  glorious 
capture  of  Fort  Christina.  But  the  indignant  Peter  shut  his 
doors  and  windows,  and  took  refuge  in  the  innermost  recesses 
of  his  mansion,  that  he  might  not  hear  the  ignoble  rejoicings  of 
the  rabble. 

Commissioners  were  now  appointed  on  both  sides,  and  a 
capitulation  was  speedily  arranged;  all  that  was  wanting  to 
ratify  it  was  that  it  should  be  signed  by  the  governor.  When 
the  commissioners  waited  upon  him  for  this  purpose,  they  were 
received  with  grim  and  bitter  courtesy.  His  warlike  accoutre- 
ments were  laid  aside,  —  an  old  Indian  night-gown  was 
wrapped  about  his  rugged  limbs,  a  red  night-cap  overshadowed 
his  frowning  brow,  an  iron-gray  beard  of  three  days'  growth 
gave  additional  grimness  to  his  visage.  Thrice  did  he  seize  a 
worn-out  stirnip  of  a  pen,  and  essay  to  sign  the  loathsome  paper 

—  thrice  did  he  clinch  his  teeth,  and  make  a  horrible  counte- 
nance, as  though  a  dose  of  rhubarb,  senna,  and  ipecacuanha 
had  been  offered  to  his  lips;  at  length,  dashing  it  from  him,  he 
seized  his  brass-hilted  sword,  and  jerking  it  from  the  scabbard, 
swore  by  St.  Nicholas,  to  sooner  die  than  yield  to  any  power 
under  heaven. 


52  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

For  two  whole  days  he  did  persistin  this  magnanimous  reso- 
lution, during  which  his  house  was  besieged  by  the  rabble,  and 
menaces  and  clamorous  revilings  exhausted  to  no  purpose. 
And  now  another  course  was  adopted  to  soothe,  if  possible,  his 
mighty  ire.  A  procession  was  formed  by  the  burgomasters  and 
schepens,  followed  by  the  populace,  to  bear  the  capitulation 
in  state  to  the  governor's  dwelling.  They  found  the  castle 
strongly  barricadoed,  and  the  old  hero  in  full  regimentals,  with 
his  cocked  hat  on  his  head,  posted  with  a  blunderbuss  at  the 
garret-window. 

There  was  something  in  this  formidable  position  that  struck 
even  the  ignoble  vulgar  with  awe  and  admiration.  The  brawl- 
ing multitude  could  not  but  reflect  with  self-abasement  upon 
their  own  pusillanimous  conduct,  when  they  beheld  their 
hardy  but  deserted  old  governor,  thus  faithful  to  his  post,  like 
a  forlorn  hope,  and  fully  prepared  to  defend  his  ungrateful  city 
to  the  last.  These  compunctions,  however,  were  soon  over- 
whelmed by  the  recurring  tide  of  public  apprehension.  The 
populace  arranged  themselves  before  the  house,  taking  off  their 
hats  with  most  respectful  humility;  Burgomaster  Roerback, 
who  was  of  that  popular  class  of  orators  described  by  Sallust  as 
being  *' talkative  rather  than  eloquent,"  stepped  forth  and 
addressed  the  governor  in  a  speech  of  three  hours'  length,  de- 
tailing, in  the  most  pathetic  terms,  the  calamitous  situation  of 
the  province,  and  urging  him  in  a  constant  repetition  of  the 
same  arguments  and  words  to  sign  the  capitulation. 

The  mighty  Peter  eyed  him  from  his  garret-window  in  grim 
silence,  —  now  and  then  his  eye  would  glance  over  the  sur- 
rounding rabble,  and  an  indignant  grin,  like  that  of  an  angry 
mastiff  would  mark  his  iron  visage.  But  though  a  man  of  most 
undaunted  mettle,  —  though  he  had  a  heart  as  big  as  an  ox, 
and  a  head  that  would  have  set  adamant  to  scorn,  —  yet  after 
all  he  was  a  mere  mortal.  Wearied  out  by  these  repeated  oppo- 
sitions, and  this  eternal  haranguing,  and  perceiving  that  unless 
he  complied,  the  inhabitants  would  follow  their  own  inclina- 
tion, or  rather  their  fears,  without  waiting  for  his  consent,  or, 
what  was  still  worse,  the  Yankees  would  have  time  to  pour  in 
their  forces  and  claim  a  share  in  the  conquest,  he  testily  ordered 
them  to  hand  up  the  paper.  It  was  accordingly  hoisted  to  him 
on  the  end  of  a  pole;  and  having  scrawled  his  name  at  the  bot- 


PETER  THE   HEADSTRONG  53 

torn  of  it,  he  anathematized  them  all  for  a  set  of  cowardly, 
mutinous,  degenerate  poltroons,  threw  the  capitulation  at  their 
heads,  slammed  down  the  window,  and  was  heard  stumping 
down-stairs  with  vehement  indignation.  The  rabble  inconti- 
nently took  to  their  heels ;  even  the  burgomasters  were  not  slow 
in  evacuating  the  premises,  fearing  lest  the  sturdy  Peter  might 
issue  from  his  den,  and  greet  them  with  some  unwelcome  testi- 
monial of  his  displeasure. 

Within  three  hours  after  the  surrender,  a  legion  of  British 
beef -fed  warriors  poured  into  New  Amsterdam,  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  fort  and  batteries.  And  now  might  be  heard,  from 
all  quarters,  the  sound  of  hammers  made  by  the  old  Dutch 
burghers,  in  nailing  up  their  doors  and  windows,  to  protect 
their  vrouws  from  these  fierce  barbarians,  whonvthey  contem- 
plated in  silent  sullenness  from  the  garret-windows  as  they 
paraded  through  the  streets. 

Thus  did  Colonel  Richard  Nichols,  the  commander  of  the 
British  forces,  enter  into  quiet  possession  of  the  conquered 
realm  as  locum  tenens  for  the  Duke  of  York.  The  victory  was 
attended  with  no  other  outrage  than  that  of  changing  the 
name  of  the  province  and  its  metropolis,  which  thenceforth 
were  denominated  New  York,  and  so  have  continued  to  be 
called  unto  the  present  day.  The  inhabitants,  according  to 
treaty,  were  allowed  to  maintain  quiet  possession  of  their  prop- 
erty; but  so  inveterately  did  they  retain  their  abhorrence  of 
the  British  nation,  that  in  a  private  meeting  of  the  leading  citi- 
zens it  was  unanimously  determined  never  to  ask  any  of  their 
conquerors  to  dinner. 

NOTE 

Modern  historians  assert  that  when  the  New  Netherlands  were  thus 
overrun  by  the  British,  as  Spain  in  ancient  days  by  the  Saracens,  a  reso- 
lute band  refused  to  bend  the  neck  to  the  invader.  Led  by  one  Garret 
Van  Home,  a  valorous  and  gigantic  Dutchman,  they  crossed  the  bay  and 
buried  themselves  among  the  marshes  and  cabbage-gardens  of  Communi- 
paw;  as  did  Pelayo  and  his  followers  among  the  mountains  of  Asturias. 
Here  their  descendants  have  remained  ever  since,  keeping  themselves 
apart,  like  seed-corn,  to  re-people  the  city  with  the  genuine  breed  when- 
ever it  shall  be  efifectually  recovered  from  its  intruders.  It  is  said  the  gen- 
uine descendants  of  the  Nederlanders  who  inhabit  New  York,  still  look 
with  longing  eyes  to  the  green  marshes  of  ancient  Pavonia,  as  did  the  con-  ' 
quered  Spaniards  of  yore  to  the  stern  mountains  of  Asturias,  considering 
these  the  regions  whence  deliverance  is  to  come. 


54  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF  ^ 

"I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of  her  shel  was  turned 
eftsoones  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to  make  a  stoole  to  sit  on;  so  the  traveller 
that  stragleth  from  his  owne  country  is  in  a  short  time  transformed  into  so  mon- 
strous a  shape,  that  he  is  faine  to  alter  his  mansion  with  his  manners,  and  to  live  where 
he  can,  not  where  he  would."  (Lyly's  Euphues.) 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observing 
strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child  I 
began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into  for- 
eign parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the  fre- 
quent alarm  of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town 
crier.  As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of  my 
observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in  rambles 
about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made  myself  familiar  with 
all  its  places  famous  in  history  or  fable.  I  knew  every  spot 
where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been  committed,  or  a  ghost 
seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  villages,  and  added  greatly  to 
my  stock  of  knowledge,  by  noting  their  habits  and  customs, 
and  conversing  with  their  savages  and  great  men.  I  even  jour- 
neyed one  long  summer's  day  to  the  summit  of  the  most  dis- 
tant hill,  whence  I  stretched  my  eye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra 
incognita,  and  was  astonished  to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  in- 
habited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years. 
Books  of  voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion,  and  in  de- 
vouring their  contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises  of  the 
school.  How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier-heads  in 
fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound  to  distant 
climes  —  with  what  longing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after  their  les- 
sening sails,  and  waft  myself  in  imagination  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth ! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this 
vague  inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served  to 
make  it  more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own  coun- 
try; and  had  I  been  merely  a  lover  of  fine  scenery,  I  should 
have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  elsewhere  its  gratification :  for  on 

^  Sketch-Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon,  Gent.  The  sketches  were  originally  published 
in  seven  parts,  between  May,  1819,  and  September,  1820.  As  Irving  predicted 
while  writing  in  England,  his  papers  partook  "of  the  fluctuations  of  his  own 
thoughts  and  feelings  —  sometimes  treating  of  scenes  before  him,  sometimes  of 
others  purely  imaginary,  and  sometimes  wandering  back  with  his  recollections  to 
his  native  country."   (Prospectus  accompanying  the  first  number.) 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF       55 

no  country  had  the  charms  of  nature  been  more  prodigally 
lavished.  Her  mighty  lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver;  her 
mountains,  with  their  bright  aerial  tints;  her  valleys,  teeming 
with  wild  fertility;  her  tremendous  cataracts,  thundering  in 
their  solitudes;  her  boimdless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous 
verdure ;  her  broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  the 
ocean;  her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts  forth  all  its 
magnificence;  her  skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of  summer 
clouds  and  glorious  sunshine,  —  no,  never  need  an  American 
look  beyond  his  own  country  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of 
natural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  the  charms  of  storied  and  poetical 
association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpieces  of  art,  the 
refinements  of  highly  cultivated  society,  the  quaint  peculiari- 
ties of  ancient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country  was  full  of 
youthful  promise;  Europe  was  rich  in  the  accumulated  treas- 
ures of  age.  Her  very  ruins  told  the  history  of  times  gone  by, 
and  every  mouldering  stone  was  a  chronicle.  I  longed  to  wan- 
der over  the  scenes  of  renowned  achievement  —  to  tread,  as  it 
were,  in  the  footsteps  of  antiquity  —  to  loiter  about  the  ruined 
castle  —  to  meditate  on  the  falling  tower  —  to  escape,  in  short, 
from  the  common-place  realities  of  the  present,  and  lose  my- 
self among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  besides  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great  men 
of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in  America: 
not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  I  have  mingled 
among  them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost  withered  by  the 
shade  into  which  they  cast  me;  for  there  is  nothing  so  baleful 
to  a  small  man  as  the  shade  of  a  great  one,  particularly  the 
great  man  of  a  city.  But  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  great  men  of 
Europe;  for  I  had  read  in  the  works  of  various  philosophers, 
that  all  animals  degenerated  in  America,  and  man  among  the 
number.  A  great  man  of  Europe,  thought  I,  must  therefore 
be  as  superior  to  a  great  man  of  America,  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps 
to  a  highland  of  the  Hudson;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed, 
by  observing  the  comparative  importance  and  swelling  magni- 
tude of  many  English  travellers  among  us,  who,  I  was  assured, 
were  very  little  people  in  their  own  country.  I  will  \dsit  this 
land  of  wonders,  thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from 
which  I  am  degenerated. 


56  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving 
passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  different  countries 
and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I  cannot  say 
that  I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher,  but 
rather  with  the  sauntering  gaze  with  which  humble  lovers  of 
the  picturesque  stroll  from  the  window  of  one  print-shop  to 
another;  caught  sometimes  by  the  delineations  of  beauty, 
sometimes  by  the  distortions  of  caricature,  and  sometimes  by 
the  loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it  is  the  fashion  for  modern 
tourists  to  travel  pencil  in  hand,  and  bring  home  their  port- 
folios filled  with  sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a  few  for  the 
entertainment  of  my  friends.  When,  however,  I  look  over  the 
hints  and  memorandums  I  have  taken  down  for  the  purpose 
my  heart  almost  fails  me,  at  finding  how  my  idle  humor  has 
led  me  aside  from  the  great  object  studied  by  every  regular 
traveller  who  would  make  a  book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  dis- 
appointment with  an  unlucky  landscape-painter,  who  had  trav- 
elled on  the  continent,  but,  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant 
inclination,  had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  corners,  and  by-places. 
His  sketch  book  was  accordingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and 
landscapes,  and  obscure  ruins;  but  he  had  neglected  to  paint 
St.  Peter's,  or  the  Coliseum;  the  cascade  of  Terni,  or  the  bay  of 
Naples;  and  had  not  a  single  glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole 
collection. 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY^      . 

When  1  behold,  with  deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte 
Living  in  brasse  or  stoney  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  nobilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation. 
And  looke  up)on  offenselesse  majesty. 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon 
Could  not  content  nor  quench  their  appetites. 

Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie. 

And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

Christolero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.  (1598.) 

On  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,  in  the 
latter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and  eve- 
ning almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  decline 

*  Sketch-Book. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  57 

of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling  about  West- 
minster Abbey.  There  was  something  congenial  to  the  season 
in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile;  and  as  I  passed 
its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the  regions  of 
antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the  shades  of  former 
ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  School, 
through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost  sub- 
terranean look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by  circular  per- 
forations in  the  massive  walls.  Through  this  dark  avenue  I 
had  a  distant  view  of  the  cloisters,  with  the  figure  of  an  old 
verger,  in  his  black  gown,  moving  along  their  shadowy  vaults, 
and  seeming  like  a  spectre  from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs. 

The  approach  to  the  abbey  through  these  gloomy  monastic 
remains  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation.  The 
cloisters  still  retain  something  of  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of 
former  days.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored  by  damps,  and 
cnmibling  with  age;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has  gathered  over 
the  inscriptions  of  the  mural  monuments,  and  obscured  the 
death's  heads  and  other  funereal  emblems.  The  sharp  touches 
of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the  arches;  the 
roses  which  adorned  the  key-stones  have  lost  their  leafy  beauty; 
everything  bears  marks  of  the  gradual  dilapidations  of  time, 
which  yet  has  something  touching  and  pleasing  in  its  very 
decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autmnnal  ray  into  the 
square  of  the  cloisters;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of  grass  in 
the  centre,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted  passage 
with  a  kind  of  dusty  splendor.  From  between  the  arcades,  the 
eye  glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky  or  a  passing  cloud,  and  be- 
held the  sun-gilt  pinnacles  of  the  abbey  towering  into  the 
azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this  min- 
gled picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  endeavoring 
to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones,  which  formed 
the  pavement  beneath  my  feet,  my  eye  was  attracted  to  three 
figures,  rudely  carved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away  by  the 
footsteps  of  many  generations.  They  were  the  effigies  of  three 
of  the  early  abbots;  the  epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced;  the 
names  alone  remained,  having  no  doubt  been  renewed  in  later 


58  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

times.  (Vi talis.  Abbas.  1082,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Abbas. 
1 1 14,  and  Laurentius.  Abbas.  11 76.)  I  remained  some  little 
while,  musing  over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left 
like  wrecks  upon  this  distant  shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale  but 
that  such  beings  had  been  and  had  perished ;  teaching  no  moral 
but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which  hopes  still  to  exact  homage 
in  its  ashes,  and  to  live  in  an  inscription.  A  little  longer,  and 
even  these  faint  records  will  be  obliterated,  and  the  monument 
will  cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I  was  yet  looking  down 
upon  these  gravestones,  I  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  abbey 
clock,  reverberating  from  buttress  to  buttress,  and  echoing 
among  the  cloisters.  It  is  almost  startling  to  hear  this  warning 
of  departed  time  sounding  among  the  tombs,  and  telling  the 
lapse  of  the  hour,  which,  like  a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward 
towards  the  grave. 

I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  interior 
of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of  the  building 
breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults  of  the 
cloisters.  The  eyes  gaze  with  wonder  at  clustered  columns  of 
gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing  from  them  to  such 
an  amazing  height;  and  man  wandering  about  their  bases, 
shrunk  into  insignificance  in  comparison  with  his  own  handi- 
work. The  spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce 
a  profound  and  mysterious  awe.  We  step  cautiously  and  softly 
about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of  the 
tomb;  while  every  footfall  whispers  along  the  walls,  and  chat- 
ters among  the  sepulchres,  making  us  more  sensible  of  the 
quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down  upon 
the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  reverence.  We 
feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated  bones  of  the 
great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history  with  their 
deeds  and  the  earth  with  their  renown.  And  yet,  it  almost  pro- 
vokes a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambition,  to  see  how  they 
are  crowded  together  and  jostled  in  the  dust ;  what  parsimony 
is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook,  a  gloomy  comer,  a 
little  portion  of  earth,  to  those  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms 
could  not  satisfy;  and  how  many  shapes,  and  forms,  and  arti- 
fices, are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger, 
and  save  from  forgetfulness,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  59 

which  once  aspired  to  occupy  ages  of  the  world^s  thought  and 
admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poets'  Corner,  which  occupies  an  end 
of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  abbey.  The  monu- 
ments are  generally  simple;  for  the  lives  of  literary  men  afford 
no  striking  themes  for  the  sculptor.  Shakespeare  and  Addison 
have  statues  erected  to  their  memories;  but  the  greater  part 
have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions.  Not- 
withstanding the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have  always 
observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey  remain  longest  about 
them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold 
curiosity  or  vague  admiration  with  which  they  gaze  on  the 
splendid  monuments  of  the  great  and  the  heroic.  They  linger 
about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions;  for 
indeed  there  is  something  of  companionship  between  the  author 
and  the  reader.  Other  men  are  known  to  posterity  only  through 
the  medium  of  history,  which  is  continually  growing  faint  and 
obscure;  but  the  intercourse  between  the  author  and  his  fellow- 
men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has  lived  for  them 
more  than  for  himself;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoy- 
ments, and  shut  himself  up  from  the  delights  of  social  life,  that 
he  might  the  more  intimately  commune  with  distant  minds 
and  distant  ages.  Well  may  the  world  cherish  his  renown;  for 
it  has  been  purchased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but 
by  the  diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well  may  posterity 
be  grateful  to  his  memory;  for  he  has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not 
of  empty  names  and  sounding  actions,  but  whole  treasures  of 
wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought,  and  golden  veins  of  language. 

From  Poets'  Comer  I  continued  my  stroll  towards  that  part 
of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres  of  the  kings.  I  wan- 
dered among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are  now  occu- 
pied by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great.  At  every  turn, 
I  met  with  some  illustrious  name,  or  the  cognizance  of  some 
powerful  house  renowned  in  history.  As  the  eye  darts  into 
these  dusky  chambers  of  death,  it  catches  glimpses  of  quaint 
effigies:  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if  in  devotion;  others 
stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with  hands  piously  pressed  together; 
warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  battle;  prelates,  with 
crosiers  and  mitres;  and  nobles  in  robes  and  coronets,  lying  as 
it  were  in  state.  In  glancing  over  this  scene,  so  strangely  popu- 


6o  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

lous,  yet  where  every  form  is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems  almost 
as  if  we  were  treading  a  mansion  of  that  fabled  city  where 
every  being  had  been  suddenly  transmuted  into  stone.  ^ 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy  of 
a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on  one  arm ; 
the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  suppHcation  upon  the  breast; 
the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morion;  the  legs  were' 
crossed  in  token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  engaged  in  the 
holy  war.  It  was  the  tomb  of  a  crusader;  of  one  of  those  mili- 
tary enthusiasts  who  so  strangely  mingled  religion  and  romance, 
and  whose  exploits  form  the  connecting  link  between  fact  and 
fiction,  between  the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There  is  some- 
thing extremely  picturesque  in  the  tombs  of  these  adventurers, 
decorated  as  they  are  with  rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic 
sculpture.  They  comport  with  the  antiquated  chapels  in  which 
they  are  generally  found;  and  in  considering  them,  the  imagina- 
tion is  apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary  associations,  the  roman- 
tic fiction,  the  chivalrous  pomp  and  pageantry,  which  poetry 
has  spread  over  the  wars  for  the  sepulchre  of  Christ.  They  are 
the  rehcs  of  times  utterly  gone  by;  of  beings  passed  from  recol- 
lection; of  customs  and  manners  with  which  ours  have  no  affin- 
ity. They  are  like  objects  from  some  strange  and  distant  land, 
of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge,  and  about  which  all 
our  conceptions  are  vague  and  visionary.  There  is  something 
extremely  solemn  and  awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs, 
extended  as  if  in  the  sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the 
dying  hour.  They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on 
my  feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  over-wrought  con- 
ceits, and  allegorical  groups,  which  abound  on  modern  monu- 
ments. I  have  been  struck,  also,  with  the  superiority  of  many 
of  the  old  sepulchral  inscriptions.  There  was  a  noble  way,  in 
former  times,  of  saying  things  simply,  and  yet  saying  them 
proudly;  and  I  do  not  know  an  epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier 
consciousness  of  family  worth  and  honorable  lineage,  than  one 
which  affirms,  of  a  noble  house,  that  "all  the  brothers  were 
brave,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poets'  Comer  stands  a  monu- 
ment which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of 
modern  art;  but  which  to  me  appears  horrible  rather  than  sub- 
*  Arabian  Nights^  Entertainmenis,  Sixty-fifth  Night. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  6i 

lime.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,^  by  Roubillac.  The 
bottom  of  the  monument  is  represented  as  throwing  open  its 
marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The 
shroud  is  falling  from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart 
at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted  husband's  arms, 
who  strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow. 
The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible  truth  and  spirit;  we  almost 
fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering,  yell  of  triumph  bursting  from  the 
distended  jaws  of  the  spectre.  But  why  should  we  thus  seek 
to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary  terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors 
round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love?  The  grave  should  be  sur- 
rounded by  everything  that  might  inspire  tenderness  and  ven- 
eration for  the  dead ;  or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue.  It 
is  the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and 
meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent  aisles, 
studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy  existence 
from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear:  the  rumbling  of  the 
passing  equipage;  the  murmur  of  the  multitude;  or  perhaps  the 
light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is  striking  with  the  death- 
like repose  around ;  and  it  has  a  strange  effect  upon  the  feelings, 
thus  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurrying  along  and  beating 
against  the  very  walls  of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  and 
from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing  away; 
the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew  less  and  less 
frequent;  the  sweet- tongued  bell  was  summoning  to  evening 
prayers ;  and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their  white 
surplices,  crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood 
before  the  entrance  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel.  A  flight  of 
steps  lead  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and  gloomy,  but  magnificent 
arch.  Great  gates  of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn 
heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  admit  the 
feet  of  common  mortals  into  this  most  gorgeous  of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  architec- 
ture and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The  very 
walls  are  wrought  into  universal  ornament,  encrusted  with 
tracery,  and  scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the  statues  of 

*  Lady  Elizabeth  Nightingale,  who  died  in  1731.  The  sculptor  was  Louis 
Francois  Roubillac  (or  Roubiliac),  1695-1762. 


62  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

saints  and  martyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning  labor  of  the 
chisel,  to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and  density,  suspended 
aloft,  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the 
wonderful  minuteness  and  airy  security  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the 
grotesque  decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pinnacles 
of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the  knights, 
with  their  scarfs  and  swords;  and  above  them  are  suspended 
their  banners,  emblazoned  with  armorial  bearings,  and  con- 
trasting the  splendor  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson  with  the 
cold  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of  this  grand 
mausoleum  stands  the  sepulchre  of  its  founder,  —  his  effigy, 
with  that  of  his  queen,  extended  on  a  sumptuous  tomb,  and  the 
whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly-wrought  brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence;  this  strange 
mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies;  these  emblems  of  living  and 
aspiring  ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which  show  the  dust 
and  oblivion  in  which  all  must  sooner  or  later  terminate. 
Nothing  impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneliness, 
than  to  tread  the  silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng 
and  pageant.  On  looking  round  on  the  vacant  stalls  of  the 
knights  and  their  esquires,  and  on  the  rows  of  dusty  but  gor- 
geous banners  that  were  once  borne  before  them,  my  imagina- 
tion conjured  up  the  scene  when  this  hall  was  bright  with  the 
valor  and  beauty  of  the  land;  glittering  with  the  splendor  of 
jewelled  rank  and  military  array;  alive  with  the  tread  of  many 
feet,  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring  multitude.  All  had  passed 
away;  the  silence  of  death  had  settled  again  upon  the  place; 
interrupted  only  by  the  casual  chirping  of  birds,  which  had 
found  their  way  into  the  chapel,  and  built  their  nests  among  its 
friezes  and  pendants,  —  sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  desertion. 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  banners,  they  were 
those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide  about  the  world;  some  toss- 
ing upon  distant  seas;  some  under  arms  in  distant  lands;  some 
mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets;  all  seek- 
ing to  deserve  one  more  distinction  in  this  mansion  of  shadowy 
honors,  —  the  melancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a  touch- 
ing instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave,  which  brings  down 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  63 

the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  mingles  the 
dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  the  sepulchre 
of  the  haughty  Elizabeth;  in  the  other  is  that  of  her  victim,  the 
lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary.  Not  an  hour  in  the  day,  but 
some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the  latter, 
mingled  with  indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The  walls  of  Eliza- 
beth's sepulchre  continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of  sympathy 
heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mary  lies 
buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows  darkened 
by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and 
the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and  weather.  A  marble 
figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the  tomb,  round  which  is  an 
iron  railing,  much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem,  the 
thistle.  I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest  my- 
self by  the  monument,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  checkered  and 
disastrous  story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abbey. 
I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest 
repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the 
choir;  these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.  The  still- 
ness, the  desertion  and  obscurity  that  were  gradually  prevailing 
around,  gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place: 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel  —  nothing's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon 
the  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  roll- 
ing, as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  vol- 
ume and  grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  building!  With 
what  pomp  do  they  swell  through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe 
their  awful  harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make 
the  silent  sepulchre  vocal !  —  And  now  they  rise  in  triumphant 
acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes, 
and  piling  sound  on  sound.  —  And  now  they  pause,  and  the 
soft  voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody; 
they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play 
about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the 


64  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air 
into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn 
cadences !  What  solemn  sweeping  concords !  It  grows  more  and 
more  dense  and  powerful  —  it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to 
jar  the  very  walls  —  the  ear  is  stunned  —  the  senses  are  over- 
whelmed. And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee  —  it  is  rising 
from  the  earth  to  heaven  —  the  very  soul  seems  rapt  away,  and 
floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of  harmony! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a  strain 
of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire;  the  shadows  of  evening 
were  gradually  thickening  around  me;  the  monuments  began 
to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom;  and  the  distant  clock  again 
gave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 

I  rose,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  descended  the 
flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building,  my 
eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  I 
ascended  the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from 
thence  a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The  shrine 
is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the 
sepulchres  of  various  kings  and  queens.  From  this  eminence 
the  eye  looks  down  between  pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the 
chapels  and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs;  where  war- 
riors, prelates,  courtiers,  and  statesmen,  lie  mouldering  in  their 
"beds  of  darkness."  Close  by  me  stood  the  great  chair  of 
coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak,  in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a 
remote  and  Gothic  age.  The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if  con- 
trived, with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the 
beholder.  Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
human  pomp  and  power;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step  from 
the  throne  to  the  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  think  that  these 
incongruous  mementos  had  teen  gathered  together  as  a  lesson 
to  living  greatness?  —  to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its 
proudest  exaltation,  the  neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must 
soon  arrive ;  how  soon  that  crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must 
pass  away,  and  it  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of 
the  tomb,  and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of 
the  multitude.  For,  strange  to  tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no 
longer  a  sanctuary.  There  is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures, 
which  leads  them  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things;  and 
there  are  base  minds  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the  illustrious 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  65 

dead  the  abject  homage  and  grovelling  servility  which  they 
pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor  has  been 
broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled  of  their  funereal  orna- 
ments; the  sceptre  has  been  stolen  from  the  hand  of  the  imperi- 
ous Elizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  headless. 
Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some  proof  how  false  and  fugi- 
tive is  the  homage  of  mankind.  Some  are  plundered,  some  muti- 
lated; some  covered  with  ribaldry  and  insult,  —  all  more  or  less 
outraged  and  dishonored! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through 
the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me;  the  lower 
parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of 
twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker.  The 
effigies  of  the  kings  faded  into  shadows;  the  marble  figures  of 
the  monuments  assumed  strange  shapes  in  the  uncertain  light; 
the  evening  breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the  cold  breath 
of  the  grave;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  travers- 
ing the  Poets'  Comer,  had  something  strange  and  dreary  in  its 
sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my  morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed 
out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters,  the  door,  closing  with  a  jarring 
noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole  building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the 
objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already 
falling  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptions, 
trophies,  had  all  become  confounded  in  my  recollection,  though 
I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the  threshold.  What, 
thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury 
of  humiliation ;  a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the  empti- 
ness of  renown  and  the  certainty  of  oblivion!  It  is,  indeed,  the 
empire  of  Death;  his  great  shadowy  palace,  where  he  sits  in 
state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust 
and  forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes.  How  idle  a 
boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name!  Time  is  ever 
silently  turning  over  his  pages;  we  are  too  much  engrossed  by 
the  stor>^  of  the  present,  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anec- 
dotes that  gave  interest  to  the  past;  and  each  age  is  a  volume 
thrown  aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes 
the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection;  and  will,  in  turn, 
be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow.  "Our  fathers," 
says  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  ''find  their  graves  in  our  short  mem- 


66  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

ories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors." 
History  fades  into  fable;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and 
controversy;  the  inscription  moulders  from  the  tablet;  the 
statue  falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns,  arches,  pyramids, 
what  are  they  but  heaps  of  sand;  and  their  epitaphs  but  char- 
acters written  in  the  dust?  What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or 
the  perpetuity  of  an  embalmment?  The  remains  of  Alexander 
the  Great  have  been  scattered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty 
sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum.  "The 
Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses^  or  time  hath  spared, 
avarice  now  consumeth;  Mizraim^  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh 
is  sold  for  balsams.''  ^ 

What,  then,  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above 
me,  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums?  The  time 
must  come  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily, 
shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet;  when,  instead  of  the  sound 
of  melody  and  praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  the  broken 
arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower;  when  the 
gairish  ^  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these  gloomy  mansions  of 
death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the  fallen  column,  and  the  fox- 
glove hang  its  blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mock- 
ery of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away;  his  name  perishes  from 
record  and  recollection;  his  history  is  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  and 
his  very  monument  becomes  a  ruin. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE5 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  gobUn, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weezels,  rats,  and  ferrets: 

From  curfew  time, 

To  the  next  prime. 

Cartweight. 

It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold;  our 
chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground;  the  postboy 
smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his  horses 
were  on  a  gallop.  "He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my  com- 

*  Egypt  was  conquered  by  Cambyses  III,  King  of  Persia,  in  525  B.C. 
2  An  ancient  name  of  Egypt,  but  here  used  for  the  earliest  rulers  taken  col- 
lectively. 
«  Also  quoted  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne.         *  Garish.         ^  Sketch-Book. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  67 

panion,  laughing,  "and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some  of 
the  merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants'  hall.  My  father, 
you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the  old  school,  and 
prides  himself  upon  keeping  up  something  of  old  English  hos- 
pitality. He  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely 
meet  with  nowadays  in  its  purity,  the  old  English  country 
gentleman;  for  our  men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their  time 
in  town,  and  fashion  is  carried  so  much  into  the  country,  that 
the  strong  rich  peculiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost  pol- 
ished away.  My  father,  however,  from  early  years,  took  honest 
Peacham^  for  his  text-book,  instead  of  Chesterfield  ;2  he  deter- 
mined in  his  own  mind,  that  there  was  no  condition  more  truly 
honorable  and  enviable  than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on 
his  paternal  lands,  and  therefore  passes  the  whole  of  his  time 
on  his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  revival  of  the 
old  rural  games  and  holiday  observances,  and  is  deeply  read 
in  the  writers,  ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the 
subject.  Indeed  his  favorite  range  of  reading  is  among  the 
authors  who  flourished  at  least  two  centuries  since;  who,  he  in- 
sists, wrote  and  thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any 
of  their  successors.  He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had  not 
been  born  a  few  centuries  earlier,  when  England  was  itself,  and 
had  its  peculiar  manners  and  customs.  As  he  lives  at  some 
distance  from  the  main  road,  in  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the 
country,  without  any  rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most 
enviable  of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity 
of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without  molestation. 
Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  tenants,  he  is  much 
looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known  simply  by  the  appella- 
tion of  *  The  Squire ' ;  a  title  which  has  been  accorded  to  the  head 
of  the  family  since  time  immemorial.  I  think  it  best  to  give  you 
these  hints  about  my  worthy  old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any 
eccentricities  that  might  otherwise  appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park,  and  at 
length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy  mag- 
nificent old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought  at  top  into 
flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  square  columns  that  supported 

*  Peacham's  The  l^omplete  Gentleman,  1622. 

*  The  Earl  of  Chesterfeld's  well-known  Letters  to  his  son,  1774. 


68  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining 
was  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark  fir-trees,  and  almost 
buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  postboy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resounded 
through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  distant 
barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed  garri- 
soned. An  old  woman  immediately  appeared  at  the  gate.  As 
the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a 
little  primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  the  antique  taste, 
with  a  neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,  and  her  silver  hair  peeping 
from  under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.  She  came  courtes3dng 
forth,  with  many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her  young 
master.  Her  husband,  it  seemed,  was  up  at  the  house  keeping 
Christmas  eve  in  the  servants'  hall;  they  could  not  do  without 
him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and  story  in  the  house- 
hold. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight  and  walk  through 
the  park  to  the  hall,  which  was  at  no  great  distance,  while  the 
chaise  should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through  a  noble  ave- 
nue of  trees,  among  the  naked  branches  of  which  the  moon 
glittered,  as  she  rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless 
sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a  sHght  covering  of 
snow,  which  here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught 
a  frosty  crystal;  and  at  a  distance  might  be  seen  a  thin  trans- 
parent vapor,  steaHng  up  from  the  low  grounds  and  threatening 
gradually  to  shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  around  him  with  transport.  ''How 
often,"  said  he,  ''have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue,  on  return- 
ing home  on  school  vacations  1  How  often  have  I  played  under 
these  trees  when  a  boy!  I  feel  a  degree  of  fiHal  reverence  for 
them,  as  we  look  up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us  in  child- 
hood. My  father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting  our  holi- 
days, and  having  us  around  him  on  family  festivals.  He  used 
to  direct  and  superintend  our  games  with  the  strictness  that 
some  parents  do  the  studies  of  their  children.  He  was  very 
particular  that  we  should  play  the  old  English  games  according 
to  their  original  form;  and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent 
and  authority  for  every  'merrie  disport';  yet  I  assure  you 
there  never  was  pedantry  so  delightful.  It'was  the  policy  of  the 
good  old  gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that  home  was  the 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  69 

happiest  place  in  the  world;  and  I  value  this  delicious  home- 
feeling  as  one  of  the  choicest  gifts  a  parent  could  bestow.'^ 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  of  all 
sorts  and  sizes,  *' mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound,  and  curs 
of  low  degree,"  that,  disturbed  by  the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell 
and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding,  open-mouthed, 
across  the  lawn. 

"—  The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me!" 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  moment  he 
was  surrounded  and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses  of  the 
faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  mansion, 
partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cold 
moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building,  of  some  magnitude, 
and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  different  periods.  One 
wing  was  evidently  very  ancient,  with  heavy  stone-shafted 
bow  wdndows  jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from  among 
the  foliage  of  which  the  small  diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass 
glittered  with  the  moonbeams.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  in 
the  French  taste  of  Charles  the  Second's  time,  having  been  re- 
paired and  altered,  as  my  friend  told  me,  by  one  of  his  ances- 
tors, who  returned  with  that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The 
grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the  old  formal  manner 
of  artificial  flower-beds,  clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces, 
and  heavy  stone  balustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a  leaden 
statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The  old  gentleman,  I  was 
told,  was  extremely  careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in 
all  its  original  state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  gardening;  it 
had  an  air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting 
good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature  in  mod- 
em gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern  republican  notions, 
but  did  not  suit  a  monarchical  government;  it  smacked  of  the 
levelling  system  —  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  introduction 
of  politics  into  gardening,  though  I  expressed  some  apprehen- 
sion that  I  should  find  the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in 
his  creed.  —  Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it  was  almost  the 
only  instance  in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with 


70  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

politics;  and  he  believed  that  he  had  got  this  notion  from  a 
member  of  parliament  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him. 
The  squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped  yew- 
trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been  occasionally  attacked 
by  modern  landscape  gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music, 
and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end  of  the 
building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from  the  serv- 
ants' hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  permitted,  and 
even  encouraged  by  the  squire,  throughout  the  twelve  days  of 
Christmas,  provided  everything  was  done  conformably  to  an- 
cient usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games  of  hoodman 
blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles,  steal  the  white  loaf,  bob 
apple,  and  snap  dragon:  the  Yule  log  and  Christmas  candle 
were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe,  with  its  white  berries, 
hung  up,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty  housemaids.  ^ 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports  that  we  had 
to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves  heard.  On 
our  arrival  being  announced,  the  squire  came  out  to  receive  us, 
accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons;  one  a  young  officer  in  the 
army,  home  on  leave  of  absence;  the  other  an  Oxonian,  just 
from  the  university.  The  squire  was  a  fine  healthy-looking  old 
gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round  an  open  florid 
countenance;  in  which  the  physiognomist,  with  the  advantage, 
Hke  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might  discover  a  singular 
mixture  of  whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate;  as  the  eve- 
ning was  far  advanced,  the  squire  would  not  permit  us  to  change 
our  travelling  dress,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to  the  company, 
which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old-fashioned  hall.  It  was  com- 
posed of  different  branches  of  a  numerous  family  connection, 
where  there  were  the  usual  proportion  of  old  uncles  and  aunts, 
comfortable  married  dames,  superannuated  spinsters,  bloom- 
ing country  cousins,  half-fledged  striplings,  and  bright-eyed 
boarding-school  hoydens.  They  were  variously  occupied;  some 
at  a  round  game  of  cards  ;2  others  conversing  around  the  fire- 

^  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farmhouses  and  kitchens  at  Christmas;  and 
the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the  giris  under  it,  plucking  each  time 
a  berry  from  the  bush.  When  the  berries  are  all  plucked,  the  privilege  ceases. 
[Author's  note.] 

'  Each  playing  without  a  partner. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  71 

place;  at  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  group  of  the  young  folks, 
some  nearly  grown  up,  others  of  a  more  tender  and  budding 
age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  merry  game ;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden 
horses,  penny  trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls,  about  the  floor, 
showed  traces  of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings,  who,  having 
frolicked  through  a  happy  day,  had  been  carried  off  to  slumber 
through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between  young 
Braceb ridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan  the  apart- 
ment. I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in  old 
times,  and  the  squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  restore  it  to 
something  of  its  primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy  projecting 
fireplace  was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  stand- 
ing by  a  white  horse,  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a  helmet, 
buckler,  and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous  pair  of  antlers 
were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the  branches  serving  as  hooks  on 
which  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and  spurs;  and  in  the  comers  of 
the  apartment  were  fowUng-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and  other 
sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was  of  the  cumbrous  work- 
manship of  former  days,  though  some  articles  of  modern  con- 
venience had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  floor  had  been  car- 
peted; so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd  mixture  of  parlor 
and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide  overwhelming^ 
fireplace,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst  of  which 
was  an  enormous  log  glowing  and  blazing,  and  sending  forth 
a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat:  this  I  understood  was  the 
Yule  clog,  which  the  squire  was  particular  in  having  brought 
in  and  illimiined  on  a  Christmas  eve,  according  to  ancient 
custom.  2 

1  Overhanging. 

'  The  Yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a  tree,  brought 
into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  on  Christmas  eve,  laid  in  the  fireplace,  and 
lighted  u-ith  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.  While  it  lasted,  there  was  great  drink- 
ing, singing,  and  telling  of  tales.  Sometimes  it  was  accompanied  by  Christmas 
candles;  but  in  the  cottages  the  only  light  was  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great 
wood  fire.  The  Yule  clog  was  to  bum  all  night;  if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered 
a  sign  of  ill  luck. 

Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs:  — 

"Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 
My  merrie,  merrie  boyes. 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing; 
While  my  good  dame,  she 


72  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  squire  seated  in  his 
hereditary  elbow  chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his  ances- 
tors, and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beaming 
warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the  very  dog  that 
lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted  his  position  and 
yawned,  would  look  fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his  tail 
against  the  floor,  and  stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of 
kindness  and  protection.  There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart 
in  genuine  hospitaHty  which  cannot  be  described,  but  is  imme- 
diately felt,  and  puts  the  stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not 
been  seated  many  minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the 
worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I  found  myself  as  much  at  home  as 
if  I  had  been  one  of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was 
served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which 
shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  portraits 
decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides  the  accustomed  lights, 
two  great  wax  tapers,  called  Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with 
greens,  were  placed  on  a  highly  polished  beaufet  among  the 
family  plate.  The  table  was  abundantly  spread  with  substan- 
tial fare;  but  the  squire  made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  a  dish 
made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk,  with  rich  spices,  being  a 
standing  dish  in  old  times  for  Christmas  eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the  retinue 
of  the  feast;  and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that 
I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted  him  with 
all  the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very 
genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  the 
humors  of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Bracebridge  al- 
ways addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon. 
He  was  a  tight,  ^  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  an  arrant  old 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  heart's  desiring." 

The  Yule  dog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farmhouses  and  kitchens  in  England,  par- 
ticularly in  the  north,  and  there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with  it  among 
the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the  house  while  it  is  burning,  or  a 
person  barefooted,  it  is  K;onsidered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand  remaining  from  the 
Yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the  next  year's  Christmas  fire.  [Author's 
note.] 

1  Tidy  [archaic]. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  73 

bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill  of  a  parrot;  his  face 
slightly  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  with  a  dry  perpetual  bloom 
on  it,  like  a  frostbitten  leaf  in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of  great 
quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and  lurking  waggery 
of  expression  that  was  irresistible.  He  was  evidently  the  wit  of 
the  family,  dealing  very  much  in  sly  jokes  and  inuendoes  with 
the  ladies,  and  making  infinite  merriment  by  harping  upon  old 
themes;  which,  unfortunately,  my  ignorance  of  the  family 
chronicles  did  not  permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be  his 
great  delight  during  supper  to  keep  a  young  girl  next  him  in  a 
continual  agony  of  stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the 
reproving  looks  of  her  mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he 
was  the  idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed 
at  ever}' thing  he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his  counte- 
nance; I  could  not  wonder  at  it,  for  he  must  have  been  a  mira- 
cle of  accomplishments  in  their  eyes.  He  could  imitate  Punch 
and  Judy;  make  an  old  woman  of  his  hand,  with  the  assistance 
of  a  burnt  cork  and  pocket-handkerchief;  and  cut  an  orange 
into  such  a  ludicrous  caricature,  that  the  young  folks  were 
ready  to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebridge.  He 
was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independent  income,  which,  by 
careful  management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants.  He  re- 
volved through  the  family  system  like  a  vagrant  comet  in  its 
orbit;  sometimes  visiting  one  branch,  and  sometimes  another 
quite  remote;  as  is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of  extensive 
connections  and  small  fortunes  in  England.  He  had  a  chirping, 
buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoying  the  present  moment; 
and  his  frequent  change  of  scene  and  company  prevented  his 
acquiring  those  rusty  unaccommodating  habits,  with  which 
old  bachelors  are  so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete 
family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  genealogy,  history,  and 
intermarriages  of  the  whole  house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made 
him  a  great  favorite  with  the  old  folks;  he  was  a  beau  of  all  the 
elder  ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among  whom  he  was 
habitually  considered  rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he  was  master 
of  the  revels  among  the  children;  so  that  there  was  not  a  more 
popular  being  in  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved  than  Mr.  Simon 
Bracebridge.  Of  late  years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely  with 
the  squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he 


74  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

particularly  delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to 
old  times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit  every 
occasion.  We  had  presently  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned 
talent,  for  no  sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines 
and  other  beverages  pecuHar  to  the  season  introduced,  than 
Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas  song.  He 
bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle  of 
the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no  means  bad,  excepting  that 
it  ran  occasionally  into  a  falsetto,  like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,^ 
he  quavered  forth  a  quaint  old  ditty. 

"Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together, 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  them  such  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,"  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old 
harper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where  he  had 
been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comfort- 
ing himself  with  some  of  the  squire's  home-brewed.  He  was  a 
kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establishment,  and,  though 
ostensibly  a  resident  of  the  village,  was  of tener  to  be  found  in 
the  squire's  kitchen  than  his  own  home,  the  old  gentleman 
being  fond  of  the  sound  of  "harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry  one; 
some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  squire  himself  fig- 
ured down  several  couple  with  a  partner,  with  whom  he 
affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for  nearly  half  a 
century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connecting 
link  between  the  old  times  and  the  new,  and  to  be  withal  a  little 
antiquated  in  the  taste  of  his  accomplishments,  evidently 
piqued  himself  on  his  dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to  gain 
credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon,  and  other  graces  of  the 
ancient  school;  but  he  had  unluckily  assorted  himself  with  a 
little  romping  girl  from  boarding-school,  who,  by  her  wild 
vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on  the  stretch,  and  defeated  all 
his  sober  attempts  at  elegance :  —  such  are  the  ill-assorted 
matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately  prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one  of  his 
*  A  kind  of  pipe  used  in  a  pipe-organ. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  75 

maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thousand  little 
knaveries  with  impunity:  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and  his 
delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins;  yet,  like  all  madcap 
youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favorite  among  the  women. 
The  most  interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young  officer 
and  a  ward  of  the  squire's,  a  beautiful  blushing  girl  of  seven- 
teen. From  several  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  I  suspected  there  was  a  little  kindness 
growing  up  between  them;  and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was 
just  the  hero  to  captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender, 
and  handsome,  and,  like  most  young  British  officers  of  late 
years,  had  picked  up  various  small  accomplishments  on  the 
continent;  he  could  talk  French  and  Italian,  draw  landscapes, 
sing  very  tolerably,  dance  divinely;  but,  above  all,  he  had  been 
wounded  at  Waterloo:  —  what  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in 
poetry  and  romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and 
perfection ! 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a  guitar,  and, 
lolling  against  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in  an  attitude  which  I 
am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little  French 
air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  squire,  however,  exclaimed  against 
having  anything  on  Christmas  eve  but  good  old  English ;  upon 
which  the  young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as 
if  in  an  effort  of  memory,  struck  into  another  strain,  and,  with 
a  charming  air  of  gallantry,  gave  Herrick's  "Night-piece  to 
JuHa." 

"Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

WTiose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

"No  Will  o'  the  Wisp  mislight  thee; 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee; 
But  on,  on  thy  waj'', 
Not  making  a  stay. 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

"Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cimiber; 
WTiat  though  the  moon  does  slimiber, 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light. 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 


76  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

"Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me, 
And  when  I  shall  meet 
Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee." 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in  compli- 
ment to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was  called ;  she, 
however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such  application, 
for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her  eyes  cast  upon 
the  floor.  Her  face  was  suffused,  it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful 
blush,  and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  but  all  that 
was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance;  indeed,  so 
great  was  her  indifference,  that  she  amused  herself  with  pluck- 
ing to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  by  the 
time  the  song  was  concluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the 
floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with  the  kind-hearted 
old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through  the  hall,  on 
my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  Yule  clog  still 
sent  forth  a  dusky  glow,  and  had  it  not  been  the  season  when 
*'no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad,"  I  should  have  been  half  tempted 
to  steal  from  my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the 
fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  ponder- 
ous furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated  in  the  days 
of  the  giants.  The  room  was  panelled  with  cornices  of  heavy 
carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesque  faces  were 
strangely  intermingled;  and  a  row  of  black-looking  portraits 
stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich, 
though  faded  damask,  with  a  lofty  tester,  and  stood  in  a  niche 
opposite  a  bow  window.  I  had  scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a 
strain  of  music  seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the 
window.  I  listened,  and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which 
I  concluded  to  be  the  Waits  from  some  neighboring  village. 
They  went  round  the  house,  playing  under  the  windows.  I 
drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear  them  more  distinctly.  The 
moonbeams  fell  through  the  upper  part  of  the  casement,  par- 
tially lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment.  The  sounds,  as 
they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and  seemed  to 
accord  with  the  quiet  and  moonlight.  I  Hstened  and  listened  — 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  77 

they  became  more  and  more  tender  and  remote,  and,  as  they 
gradually  died  away,  my  head  sank  upon  the  pillow,  and  I  fell 
asleep. 

RIP  VAN  WINKLEi 

A  POSTHUMOUS   WRITING  OF  DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER* 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday. 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre.  Cartwright. 

The  following  tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was  very  curious  in 
the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the  manners  of  the  descendants 
from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  historical  researches,  however,  did  not 
lie  so  much  among  books  as  among  men;  for  the  former  are  lamentably 
scanty  on  his  favorite  topics;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still 
more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore  so  invaluable  to  true  his- 
tory. Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family, 
snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse  under  a  spreading  sycamore, 
he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied 
it  with  the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province  during 
the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  pubhshed  some  years  since. 
There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work, 
and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief 
merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on 
its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  completely  estabhshed;  and  it  is 
now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable 
authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  pubhcation  of  his  work,  and 
now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm  to  his  memory 
to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  better  employed  in  weightier 
labors.^  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way;  and  though 
it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors, 
and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  defer- 
ence and  afifection;  yet  his  errors  and  folhes  are  remembered  "more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  in- 
tended to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated 

^  Skekh-Book.  ^  See  p.  38,  note. 

'  Among  the  critics  of  the  History  of  New  York  was  a  close  friend  of  Irving, 
Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  who,  in  a  discourse  before  the  New  York  Historical  Society, 
said:  "It  is  painful  to  see  a  mind,  as  admirable  for  its  exquisite  perception  of  the 
beautiful  as  it  is  for  its  quick  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  wasting  the  richness  of  its 
fancy  on  an  ungrateful  theme,  and  its  exuberant  humor  in  a  coarse  caricature." 
Irving  has  alluded  to  this  stricture  with  characteristic  good-humor. 


78  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk,  whose  good  opinion  is  worth 
having;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far  as 
to  imprint  his  Hkeness  on  their  new-year  cakes;  and  have  thus  given  him 
a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Water- 
loo Medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  Farthing.^ 

Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  remem- 
ber the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered  branch 
of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west 
of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over 
the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change 
of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some 
change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and 
they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 
clear  evening  sky;  but  sometimes  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape is  cloudless  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will 
glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. ' 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may  have 
descried  the  light  smoke  curHng  up  from  a  village,  whose 
shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of 
the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  land- 
scape. It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been 
founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  time  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the 
good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in  peace!),  and  there  were 
some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a 
few  years,  built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland, 
having  latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with 
weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses  (which, 
to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather- 
beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was 
yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow, 
of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the 
Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort 

*  According  to  a  popular  delusion,  only  three  farthings  were  struck  in  Queen 
Anne's  reign. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  79 

Christina.^  He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial 
character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  was  a 
simple,  good-natured  man;  he  was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor, 
and  an  obedient  henpecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter 
circumstance  might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which 
gained  him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men  are  most 
apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under 
the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless, 
are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domes- 
tic tribulation;  and  a  curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in 
the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering. 
A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects  be  consid- 
ered a  tolerable  blessing,  and  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice 
blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the  good 
wives  of  the  \'illage,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took 
his  part  in  all  family  squabbles;  and  never  failed,  whenever 
they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to 
lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the 
village,  too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached. 
He  assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them 
to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of 
ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging 
about  the  village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hang- 
ing on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thou- 
sand tricks  on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at 
him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from 
the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance;  for  he  would  sit  on  a 
wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and 
fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be 
encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece 
on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and 
swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or 
wild  pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor,  even 
in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country 
frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone-fences;  the 
women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 
*  History  of  New  York,  book  vi,  chap.  vin. 


8o  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging 
husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to 
attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing 
family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  im- 
possible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm;  it 
was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  coun- 
try; everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong,  in 
spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces;  his 
cow  would  either  go  astray  or  get  among  the  cabbages ;  weeds 
were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else;  the 
rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  out- 
door work  to  do;  so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had 
dwindled  away  under  his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there 
was  little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  pota- 
toes, yet  it  was  the  worst-conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  belonged 
to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness, 
promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 
He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels, 
equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he 
had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her 
train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals, 
of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat 
white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought 
or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a 
pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in 
perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was 
bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night  her  tongue 
was  incessantly  going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure 
to  produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one 
way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent 
use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook 
his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however, 
always  provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was 
fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house 
—  the  only  side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  hus- 
band. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  8i 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog,  Wolf,  who  was  as 
much  henpecked  as  his  master;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 
them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf 
with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often 
astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  bejStting  an  honorable 
dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods 
—  but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all- 
besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue?  The  moment  Wolf 
entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground, 
or  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air, 
casting  many  a  side-long  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at 
the  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle  he  would  fly  to  the 
door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as  years 
of  matrimony  rolled  on;  a  tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age, 
and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener 
with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  console  him- 
self, when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual 
club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of 
the  \allage;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small 
inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His  Majesty  George 
the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a  long 
lazy  summer's  day,  talking  listlessly  over  \dllage  gossip,  or 
telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have 
been  worth  any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound 
discussions  that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old 
newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing  traveller. 
How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled 
out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  school-master,  a  dapper 
learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most 
gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary;  and  how  sagely  they  would 
deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken 
place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the 
inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till 
night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the 
shade  of  a  large  tree;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour 
by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true  he 
was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly. 


82  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adher- 
ents), perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his 
opinions.  When  anything  that  was  read  or  related  displeased 
him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to 
send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry  puffs;  but  when  pleased, 
he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in 
light  and  placid  clouds;  and  sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about  his  nose, 
would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the  members 
all  to  nought;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder 
himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago, 
who  charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and  his  only 
alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor 
of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into  the 
woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom 
he  sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it; 
but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a 
friend  to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wist- 
fully in  his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily 
believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day,  Rip 
had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the 
Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel 
shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  reechoed  with 
the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain 
herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  open- 
ing between  the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country 
for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but 
majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the 
sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy 
bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  83 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain  glen, 
wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments 
from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected 
rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this 
scene;  evening  was  gradually  advancing;  the  mountains  began 
to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the 
terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  distance, 
hallooing,  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  soHtary 
fhght  across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have 
deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the 
same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van  Winkle! 
Rip  Van  Winkle!"  —  at  the  same  time  WoK  bristled  up  his 
back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side, 
looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague 
apprehension  stealing  over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the 
same  direction,  and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling 
up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised"  to  see  any  human  being 
in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place;  but  supposing  it  to  be 
some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he 
hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singu- 
larity of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short,  square- 
built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard. 
His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion:  a  cloth  jerkin 
strapped  round  the  waist,  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer 
one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a 
stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip 
to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy 
and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with 
his  usual  alacrity;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they 
clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then 
heard  long  rolling  peals  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to 
issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks. 


84  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those 
transient  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came 
to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpen- 
dicular precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees 
shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the 
azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole 
time  Rip  and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence;  for 
though  the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was 
something  strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown, 
that  inspired  awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a  com- 
pany of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion;  some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and 
most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches  of  similar  style  with  that 
of  the  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a  large 
beard,  broad  face,  'and  small  piggish  eyes;  the  face  of  another 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a 
white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They 
all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one 
who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentle- 
man, with  a  weather-beaten  countenance;  he  wore  a  laced 
doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather, 
red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The 
whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish 
painting  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  par- 
son, which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of 
the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though  these 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained 
the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal, 
the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed. 
Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the 
mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  R-ip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  85 

desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed, 
statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  coun- 
tenances, that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote 
together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg 
into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the 
company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they  quaffed 
the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  bever- 
age, which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hol- 
lands. He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted 
to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another;  and  he 
reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 
senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head 
gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence  he 
had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  — 
it  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and 
twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft, 
and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "Surely,"  thought 
Rip,  "I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occur- 
rences before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a  keg  of 
liquor  —  the  mountain  ravine  —  the  wild  retreat  among  the 
rocks  —  the  woe-begone  party  at  ninepins  —  the  flagon  — 
"Oh!  that  flagon!  that  wicked  flagon!"  thought  Rip  —  "what 
excuse  shall  I  make  t(5  Dame  Van  Winkle?" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean,  well- 
oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire-lock  lying  by  him,  the 
barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock 
worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roisters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him 
with  liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disap- 
peared, but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or 
partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted  his  name,  but 
all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no 
dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's  gam- 
bol, and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and 
gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and 
wanting  in  his  usual  activity.   "These  mountain  beds  do  not 


86  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "and  if  this  frolic  should  lay  me 
up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time 
with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down 
into  the  glen;  he  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion had  ascended  the  preceding  evening;  but  to  his  aston- 
ishment a  mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs. 
He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his 
toilsome  way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch- 
hazel,  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild 
grapevines  that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to 
tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening 
remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high,  impenetrable  wall, 
over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery 
foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shad- 
ows of  the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was 
brought  to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his 
dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle 
crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a 
sunny  precipice;  and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to 
look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was 
to  be  done?  the  morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  fam- 
ished for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog 
and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but  it  would  not  do  to 
starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered 
the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety, 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  nmnber  of  people,  but 
none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for  he 
had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country 
round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that 
to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him, 
invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this 
gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to 
his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  point- 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  87 

ing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recog- 
nized for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The 
very  village  was  altered;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared. 
Strange  names  were  over  the  doors  —  strange  faces  at  the 
windows,  —  everything  was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave 
him ;  he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around 
him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village, 
which  he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill 
Mountains  —  there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance  — 
there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been  — 
Rip  was  sorely  perplexed  —  "That  flagon  last  night,"  thought 
he,  "has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his  own 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He 
found  the  house  gone  to  decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  win- 
dows shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved 
dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed 
on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed  —  "My  very  dog,"  sighed 
poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten  me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn, 
and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all  his 
connubial  fears  —  he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children  — 
the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then 
again  all  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the 
village  inn  —  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large,  rickety  wooden 
building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some  of 
them  broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and 
over  the  door  was  painted,  "The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan 
Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the 
quiet  Httle  Dutch  iim  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red 
night-cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a 
singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes  —  all  this  was  strange 
and  incomprehensible.    He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however, 


88  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so 
many  a  peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor- 
phosed. The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a 
sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in 
large  characters.  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but  none 
that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about 
it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity. 
He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad 
face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco- 
smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  school- 
master, doling  forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In 
place  of  these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of 
citizens — ^elections — members  of  congress — liberty — Bunker's 
Hill  —  heroes  of  seventy-six  —  and  other  words,  which  were 
a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his  rusty 
fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women  and 
children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern- 
politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eying  him  from  head  to 
foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and, 
drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  "on  which  side  he  voted?" 
Rip  started  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little 
fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in 
his  ear,  "Whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat?"  Rip  was 
equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with 
his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van 
Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane, 
his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his 
very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone,  "what  brought  him 
to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels 
and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?  "  —  "Alas! 
gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I  am  a  poor  quiet 
man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God 
bless  him!" 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  89 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders  —  "A  tory! 
a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away  with  him!"  It  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  restored  order;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of 
brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what  he  came 
there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking?  The  poor  man  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in 
search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the 
tavern.  * 

**  Well  —  who  are  they?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man  re- 
plied, in  a  thin,  piping  voice:  "Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is 
dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a  wooden  tomb- 
stone in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but 
that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"  Wliere  's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war; 
some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point  —  others 
say  he  was  drowTied  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.^ 
I  don't  know  —  he  never  came  back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  school-master? 

"He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia  general, 
and  is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his 
home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous 
lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand : 
war  —  Congress  —  Stony  Point;  he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "Does  nobody 
here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three,  "Oh,  to  be 
sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself,  as 
he  went  up  the  mountain :  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as 
ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  He 
doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or 

*  The  legend  concerning  this  promontory  is  explained  in  the  History  of  New 
York,  book  vi,  chap.  rv. 


90  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name? 

^* God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end;  "I'm  not  my- 
self —  I'm  somebody  else  —  that's  me  yonder  —  no  —  that's 
somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes  —  I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't 
tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  loot  at  each  other,  nod,  wink 
significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads. 
There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keeping 
the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of 
which  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with 
some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely 
woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray- 
bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which, 
frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry.  ''Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she, 
" hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name 
of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all 
awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "What  is  your 
name,  my  good  woman?"  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?" 

"Ah,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's 
twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and 
never  has  been  heard  of  since,  —  his  dog  came  home  without 
him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the 
Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  and  he  put  it  with  a 
faltering  voice :  — 

"Where's  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since;  she  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  England  peddler.'^ 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "I  am  your  father!" 
cried  he  —  "Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once  —  old  Rip  Van 
Winkle  now!  Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  under 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  91 

it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "Sure  enough  it  is  Rip 
Van  Winkle  —  it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again,  old  neigh- 
bor —  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they 
heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their 
tongues  in  their  cheeks;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the 
cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the 
field,  screwed  down  the  comers  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his 
head  —  upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head 
throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old  Peter 
Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name,^  who  wrote  one 
of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most 
ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the 
wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recol- 
lected Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  sat- 
isfactory manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact, 
handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaats- 
kill  Mountains  had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings. 
That  it  was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first 
discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half -moon;  being  per- 
mitted in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and 
keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river  and  the  great  city  called  by 
his  name.  That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old 
Dutch  dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain; 
and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the 
sound  of  their  balls  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and  re- 
turned to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's 
daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a  snug  well- 
furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband, 
whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb 
upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of 
himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work 
on  the  farm;  but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to 
anything  else  but  his  business. 

^  Adrian  van  der  Donck. 


92  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the 
wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends  among  the 
rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took  his 
place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was  rever- 
enced as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle 
of  the  old  times  '* before  the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he 
could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to 
comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during  his 
torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war  —  that 
the  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England  —  and 
that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  His  Majesty  George  the 
Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in 
fact,  was  no  politician;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made 
but  little  impression  on  him ;  but  there  was  one  species  of  des- 
potism under  which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was  —  petti- 
coat government.  Happily  that  was  at  an  end ;  he  had  got  his 
neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out 
whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  however, 
he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes, 
which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his 
fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at 
Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on 
some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless,  owing 
to  his  having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  pre- 
cisely to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  the  neighborhood  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always 
pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had 
been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he 
always  remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however, 
almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they 
never  hear  a  thunder-storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the 
Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at 
their  game  of  ninepins;  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  hen- 
pecked husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when  life  hangs  heavy 
on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of 
Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  93 

NOTE 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to  Mr. 
Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the  Emperor 
Frederick  der  Rolhbart,^  and  the  Kypphaiiser  mountain;  the  subjoined 
note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an 
absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many,  but 
nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our  old 
Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous  events  and 
appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in 
the  villages  along  the  Hudson;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to 
admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who, 
when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very  old  venerable  man,  and  so  perfectly 
rational  and  consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious 
person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certifi- 
cate on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  justice  and  signed  with  a  cross, 
in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story  therefore,  is  beyond  the 
possibility  of  doubt. 

"D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book  of  Mr. 
Knickerbocker:  — 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  region  full 
of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits,  who  influenced 
the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  sending 
good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit, 
said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills, 
and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at 
the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the 
old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she 
would  spin  Hght  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and 
send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes 
of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits 
to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however, 
she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a 
bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web;  and  when  these  clouds  broke, 
woe  betide  the  valleys! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of  Manitou  or 
Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Catskill  Mountains,  and 
took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations 
upon  the  red  men.    Sometimes  he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a 

1  According  to  a  legend,  Frederick  I.  (1121-1190),  called  Barbarossa,  der 
Rothbart  (Redbeard),  instead  of  dying,  lapsed  into  a  profound  sleep,  from  which 
he  would  awake  when  his  country  should  need  him. 


94  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through 
tangled  forest  and  among  ragged  rocks;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud 
ho!  ho!  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a  great  rock  or 
cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and  from  the  flowering  vines 
which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its  neigh- 
borhood, is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is 
a  small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking 
in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  he  on  the  surface.  This 
place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  boldest 
hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time, 
however,  a  hunter,  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock, 
where  he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One 
of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he 
let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth,  which 
washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was  dashed 
to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson,  and  continues  to 
flow  to  the  present  day;  being  the  identical  stream  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 
THE  CHASE^ 

Why,  anything: 
An  honorable  murderer,  if  you  will; 
For  nought  I  did  in  hate,  but  all  in  honor. 

Shakespeare,  Othello,  v,  ii,  293. 

The  bloody  and  inhuman  scene  rather  incidentally  men- 
tioned than  described  in  the  preceding  chapter,  is  conspicuous 
in  the  pages  of  colonial  history,  by  the  merited  title  of  "The 
Massacre  of  William  Henry."  ^  it  so  far  deepened  the  stain 
which  a  previous  and  very  similar  event  had  left  upon  the  repu- 
tation of  the  French  commander,  that  it  was  not  entirely  erased 
by  his  early  and  glorious  death.  It  is  now  becoming  obscured 
by  time;  and  thousands,  who  know  that  Montcalm  died  Hke  a 
hero  on  the  plains  of  Abraham,  have  yet  to  learn  how  much  he 
was  deficient  in  that  moral  courage  without  which  no  man  can 
be  truly  great.  Pages  might  be  written  to  prove,  from  this  illus- 
trious example,  the  defects  of  human  excellence;  to  show  how 
easy  it  is  for  generous  sentiments,  high  courtesy,  and  chival- 
rous courage,  to  lose  their  influence  beneath  the  chilling  blight 
of  selfishness,  and  to  exhibit  to  the  world  a  man  who  was  great 
in  all  the  minor  attributes  of  character,  but  who  was  found 
wanting  when  it  became  necessary  to  prove  how  much  principle 
is  superior  to  policy.  But  the  task  would  exceed  our  preroga- 
tives; and,  as  history,  like  love,  is  so  apt  to  surround  her  heroes 
with  an  atmosphere  of  imaginary  brightness,  it  is  probable 
that  Louis  de  Saint  Veran  will  be  viewed  by  posterity  only  as 

*  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  chapters  xvni-xx.  The  impulse  to  write  this 
romance  came  to  the  author  at  Glens  (or  Glenns)  Falls,  during  an  excursion  to 
Saratoga  and  Lake  George  with  a  party  of  English  gentlemen,  in  the  summer  of 
1825.  Stanley,  afterwards  Lord  Derby,  Prime  Minister  of  England,  having  sug- 
gested that  the  caverns  formed  by  the  river  were  just  the  scene  for  a  romance, 
Cooper  promised  to  write  a  book  in  which  they  should  play  a  part.  He  soon 
began  to  write,  and  completed  the  book  in  a  few  months.  It  was  published  in 
February,  1826. 

'  While  the  English,  under  the  conmiand  of  Colonel  Munro,  were  filing  out 
of  Fort  William  Henry  after  the  capitulation  in  August,  1757,  they  were  treach- 
erously attacked  by  the  Indian  allies  of  the  French. 


96  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

the  gallant  defender  of  his  country,  while  his  cruel  apathy  on 
the  shores  of  the  Oswego  and  of  the  Horican^  will  be  forgotten. 
Deeply  regretting  this  weakness  on  the  part  of  a  sister  muse, 
we  shall  at  once  retire  from  her  sacred  precincts,  within  the 
proper  limits  of  our  own  humble  vocation. 

The  third  day  from  the  capture  of  the  fort  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  but  the  business  of  the  narrative  must  still  detain  the 
reader  on  the  shores  of  the  ''holy  lake."  When  last  seen,  the 
environs  of  the  works  were  filled  with  violence  and  uproar. 
They  were  now  possessed  by  stillness  and  death.  The  blood- 
stained conquerors  had  departed;  and  their  camp,  which  had 
so  lately  rung  with  the  merry  rejoicings  of  a  victorious  army, 
lay  a  silent  and  deserted  city  of  huts.  The  fortress  was  a 
smouldering  ruin;  charred  rafters,  fragments  of  exploded  artil- 
lery, and  rent  mason-work,  covering  its  earthen  mounds  in 
confused  disorder. 

A  frightful  change  had  also  occurred  in  the  season.  The  sun 
had  hid  its  warmth  behind  an  impenetrable  mass  of  vapor,  and 
hundreds  of  human  forms,  which  had  blackened  beneath  the 
fierce  heats  of  August,  were  stiffening  in  their  deformity,  before 
the  blasts  of  a  premature  November.  The  curling  and  spotless 
mists,  which  had  been  seen  sailing  above  the  hills  towards  the 
north,  were  now  returning  in  an  interminable  dusky  sheet, 
that  was  urged  along  by  the  fury  of  a  tempest.  The  crowded 
mirror  of  the  Horican  was  gone;  and  in  its  place  the  green  and 
angry  waters  lashed  the  shores,  as  if  indignantly  casting  back 
its  impurities  to  the  polluted  strand.  Still  the  clear  fountain 
retained  a  portion  of  its  charmed  influence,  but  it  reflected  only 
the  sombre  gloom  that  fell  from  the  impending  heavens.  That 
humid  and  congenial  atmosphere  which  commonly  adorned 
the  view,  veiling  its  harshness  and  softening  its  asperities,  had 
disappeared,  and  the  northern  air  poured  across  the  waste  of 
water  so  harsh  and  unmingled  that  nothing  was  left  to  be  con- 
jectured by  the  eye,  or  fashioned  by  the  fancy. 

The  fiercer  element  had  cropped  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 
which  looked  as  though  it  were  scathed  by  the  consuming 
lightning.  But  here  and  there  a  dark  green  tuft  rose  in  the 
midst  of  the  desolation;  the  earliest  fruits  of  a  soil  that  had 
been  fattened  with  human  blood.  The  whole  landscape,  which, 

1  Lake  George. 


THE  CHASE  97 

seen  by  a  favoring  light  and  in  a  genial  temperature,  had  been 
found  so  lovely,  appeared  now  like  some  pictured  allegory  of 
life,  in  which  objects  were  arrayed  in  their  harshest  but  truest 
colors,  and  without  the  relief  of  any  shadowing. 

The  solitary  and  arid  blades  of  grass  arose  from  the  passing 
gusts  fearfully  perceptible;  the  bold  and  rocky  mountains  were 
too  distinct  in  their  barrenness,  and  the  eye  even  sought  relief, 
in  vain,  by  attempting  to  pierce  the  illimitable  void  of  heaven, 
which  was  shut  to  its  gaze  by  the  dusky  sheet  of  ragged  and 
driving  vapor. 

The  wind  blew  unequally;  sometimes  sweeping  heavily  along 
the  ground,  seeming  to  whisper  its  moanings  in  the  cold  ears  of 
the  dead,  then  rising  in  a  shrill  and  mournful  whistling,  it 
entered  the  forest  with  a  rush  that  filled  the  air  with  the  leaves 
and  branches  it  scattered  in  its  path.  Amid  the  unnatural 
shower,  a  few  hungry  ravens  struggled  with  the  gale;  but  no 
sooner  was  the  green  ocean  of  woods,  which  stretched  beneath 
them,  passed,  than  they  gladly  stooped,  at  random,  to  their 
hideous  banquet. 

In  short,  it  was  a  scene  of  wildness  and  desolation;  and  it 
appeared  as  if  all  who  had  profanely  entered  it  had  been 
stricken,  at  a  blow,  by  the  relentless  arm  of  death.  But  the 
prohibition  had  ceased;  and  for  the  first  time  since  the  perpe- 
trators of  those  foul  deeds  which  had  assisted  to  disfigure  the 
scene  were  gone,  Hving  human  beings  had  now  presumed  to 
approach  the  place. 

About  an  hour  before  the  setting  of  the  sun,  on  the  day 
already  mentioned,  the  forms  of  five  men  might  have  been 
seen  issuing  from  the  narrow  vista  of  trees,  where  the  path  to 
the  Hudson  entered  the  forest,  and  advancing  in  the  direction 
of  the  ruined  works.  At  first  their  progress  was  slow  and 
guarded,  as  though  they  entered  with  reluctance  amid  the  hor- 
rors of  the  spot,  or  dreaded  the  renewal  of  its  frightful  incidents. 
A  light  figure  preceded  the  rest  of  the  party,  with  the  caution 
and  activity  of  a  native;  ascending  every  hillock  to  reconnoitre, 
and  indicating,  by  gestures,  to  his  companions,  the  route  he 
deemed  it  most  prudent  to  pursue.  Nor  were  those  in  the  rear 
wanting  in  every  caution  and  foresight  known  to  forest  war- 
fare. One  among  them,  he  also  was  an  Indian,  moved  a  little 
on  one  flank,  and  watched  the  margin  of  the  woods,  with  eyes 


98  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

long  accustomed  to  read  the  smallest  sign  of  danger.  The  re- 
maining three  were  white,  though  clad  in  vestments  adapted, 
both  in  quality  and  color,  to  their  present  hazardous  pursuit, 
— that  of  hanging  on  the  skirts  of  a  retiring  army  in  the  wil- 
derness. 

The  effects  produced  by  the  appalling  sights  that  constantly 
arose  in  their  path  to  the  lake  shore  were  as  different  as  the 
characters  of  the  respective  individuals  who  composed  the 
party.  The  youth  in  front  threw  serious  but  furtive  glances  at 
the  mangled  victims,  as  he  stepped  lightly  across  the  plain, 
afraid  to  exhibit  his  feelings,  and  yet  too  inexperienced  to  quell 
entirely  their  sudden  and  powerful  influence.  His  red  associate, 
however,  was  superior  to  such  a  weakness.  He  passed  the 
groups  of  dead  with  a  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  an  eye  so 
calm,  that  nothing  but  long  and  inveterate  practice  could 
enable  him  to  maintain.  The  sensations  produced  in  the  minds 
of  even  the  white  men  were  different,  though  uniformly  sorrow- 
ful. One,  whose  gray  locks  and  furrowed  lineaments,  blending 
with  a  martial  air  and  tread,  betrayed,  in  spite  of  the  disguise 
of  a  woodsman's  dress,  a  man  long  experienced  in  scenes  of 
war,  was  not  ashamed  to  groan  aloud,  whenever  a  spectacle  of 
more  than  usual  horror  came  under  his  view.  The  young  man 
at  his  elbow  shuddered,  but  seemed  to  suppress  his  feelings  in 
tenderness  to  his  companion.  Of  them  all,  the  straggler  who 
brought  up  the  rear  appeared  alone  to  betray  his  real  thoughts, 
without  fear  of  observation  or  dread  of  consequences.  He  gazed 
at  the  most  appalling  sight  with  eyes  and  muscles  that  knew 
not  how  to  waver,  but  with  execrations  so  bitter  and  deep  as 
to  denote  how  much  he  denounced  the  crime  of  his  enemies. 

The  reader  will  perceive  at  once,  in  these  respective  charac- 
ters, the  Mohicans,  and  their  white  friend,  the  scout;  together 
with  Munro  and  Heyward.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  father  in  quest 
of  his  children,  attended  by  the  youth  who  felt  so  deep  a  stake 
in  their  happiness,  and  those  brave  and  trusty  foresters,  who 
had  already  proved  their  skill  and  fidelity  through  the  trying 
scenes  related.^ 

When  Uncas,  who  moved  in  front,  had  reached  the  centre 

'*  The  father  is  Munro;  his  children  are  the  dark-eyed  Cora,  and  Alice,  "she  of 
the  yellow  locks  and  blue  eyes,"  the  betrothed  of  Heyward;  the  foresters  are 
Leatherstocking  and  the  two  Mohicans,  Chingachgook  and  his  son  Uncas. 


THE  CHASE  99 

of  the  plain,  he  raised  a  cry  that  drew  his  companions  in  a  body 
to  the  spot.  The  young  warrior  had  halted  over  a  group  of 
females  who  lay  in  a  cluster,  a  confused  mass  of  dead.  Not- 
withstanding the  revolting  horror  of  the  exhibition,  Munro 
and  Heyward  flew  towards  the  festering  heap,  endeavoring, 
with  a  love  that  no  unseemliness  could  extinguish,  to  discover 
whether  any  vestiges  of  those  they  sought  were  to  be  seen 
among  the  tattered  and  many-colored  garments.  The  father 
and  the  lover  found  instant  relief  in  the  search;  though  each 
was  condemned  again  to  experience  the  misery  of  an  uncer- 
tainty that  was  hardly  less  insupportable  than  the  most  revolt- 
ing truth.  They  were  standing  silent  and  thoughtful,  around 
the  melancholy  pile,  when  the  scout  approached.  Eyeing  the 
sad  spectacle  with  an  angry  countenance,  the  sturdy  w^oods- 
man,  for  the  first  time  since  his  entering  the  plain,  spoke  intel- 
ligibly and  aloud :  — 

"I  have  been  on  many  a  shocking  field,  and  have  followed  a 
trail  of  blood  for  weary  miles,"  he  said,  "but  never  have  I 
found  the  hand  of  the  devil  so  plain  as  it  is  here  to  be  seen! 
Revenge  is  an  Indian  feeling,  and  all  who  know  me  know  that 
there  is  no  cross  in  my  veins;  but  this  much  will  I  say  —  here, 
in  the  face  of  heaven,  and  with  the  power  of  the  Lord  so  mani- 
fest in  this  howHng  wilderness,  —  that  should  these  Frenchers 
ever  trust  themselves  again  within  the  range  of  a  ragged  bullet, 
there  is  one  rifle  shall  play  its  part,  so  long  as  flint  will  fire  or 
powder  burn !  I  leave  the  tomahawk  and  knife  to  such  as  have 
a  natural  gift  to  use  them.  What  say  you,  Chingachgook,"  he 
added  in  Delaware;  ''shall  the  Hurons  boast  of  this  to  their 
women  when  the  deep  snows  come?  " 

A  gleam  of  resentment  flashed  across  the  dark  lineaments  of 
the  Mohican  chief;  he  loosened  his  knife  in  his  sheath,  and  then 
turning  calmly  from  the  sight,  his  countenance  settled  into  a 
repose  as  deep  as  if  he  never  knew  the  instigation  of  passion. 

"Montcalm!  Montcalm!"  continued  the  deeply  resentful 
and  less  self -restrained  scout;  "they  say  a  time  must  come, 
when  all  the  deeds  done  in  the  flesh  will  be  seen  at  a  single  look; 
and  that  by  eyes  cleared  from  mortal  infirmities.  Woe  betide 
the  wretch  who  is  bom  to  behold  this  plain,  with  the  judgment 
hanging  about  his  soul!  Ha  —  as  I  am  a  man  of  white  blood, 
yonder  lies  a  red-skin,  without  the  hair  of  his  head  where 


loo  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

nature  rooted  it!  Look  to  him,  Delaware;  it  may  be  one  of  your 
missing  people;  and  he  should  have  burial  like  a  stout  warrior. 
I  see  it  in  your  eye,  Sagamore:  a  Huron  pays  for  this,  afore  the 
fall  winds  have  blown  away  the  scent  of  the  blood!" 

Chingachgook  approached  the  mutilated  form,  and  turning 
it  over,  he  found  the  distinguishing  marks  of  one  of  those  six 
allied  tribes,  or  nations,  as  they  were  called,  who,  while  they 
fought  in  the  English  ranks,  were  so  deadly  hostile  to  his  own 
people.  Spuming  the  loathsome  object  with  his  foot,  he  turned 
from  it  with  the  same  indifference  he  would  have  quitted  a 
brute  carcass.  The  scout  comprehended  the  action,  and  very 
deliberately  pursued  his  own  way,  continuing,  however,  his 
denunciations  against  the  French  commander  in  the  same 
resentful  strain. 

"Nothing  but  vast  wisdom  and  onlimited  power  should  dare 
to  sweep  off  men  in  multitudes,"  he  added;  "for  it  is  only  the 
one  that  can  know  the  necessity  of  the  judgment:  and  what  is 
there,  short  of  the  other,  that  can  replace  the  creatures  of  the 
Lord?  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  kill  the  second  buck  afore  the  first  is 
eaten,  unless  a  march  in  the  front,  or  an  ambushment,  be  con- 
templated. It  is  a  different  matter  with  a  few  warriors  in  open 
and  rugged  fight,  for  't  is  their  gift  to  die  with  the  rifle  or  the 
tomahawk  in  hand ;  according  as  their  natures  may  happen  to 
be,  white  or  red.  Uncas,  come  this  way,  lad,  and  let  the  ravens 
settle  upon  the  Mingo.  I  know,  from  often  seeing  it,  that  they 
have  a  craving  for  the  flesh  of  an  Oneida;  and  it  is  as  well  to  let 
the  bird  follow  the  gift  of  its  natural  appetite." 

"Hugh!"  exclaimed  the  young  Mohican,  rising  on  the  ex- 
tremities of  his  feet,  and  gazing  intently  in  his  front,  frighten- 
ing the  raven  to  some  other  prey,  by  the  sound  and  the  action. 

"What  is  it,  boy?"  whispered  the  scout,  lowering  his  tall 
form  into  a  crouching  attitude,  like  a  panther  about  to  take 
his  leap;  "  God  send  it  be  a  tardy  Frencher,  skulking  for  plunder. 
I  do  believe  Killdeer  would  take  an  oncommon  range  to-day! " 

Uncas,  without  making  any  reply,  bounded  away  from  the 
spot,  and  in  the  next  instant  he  was  seen  tearing  from  a  bush, 
and  waving  in  triumph,  a  fragment  of  the  green  riding- veil  of 
Cora.  The  movement,  the  exhibition,  and  the  cry,  which  again 
burst  from  the  lips  of  the  young  Mohican,  instantly  drew  the 
whole  party  about  him. 


THE  CHASE  ioii 

"My  child!"  said  Munro,  speaking  quick  and  wildly;  "give 
me  my  child!" 

"Uncas  will  try,"  was  the  short  and  touching  answer.  The 
simple  but  meaning  assurance  was  lost  on  the  father,  who 
seized  the  piece  of  gauze,  and  crushed  it  in  his  hand,  while  his 
eyes  roamed  fearfully  among  the  bushes,  as  if  he  equally 
dreaded  and  hoped  for  the  secrets  they  might  reveal. 

"Here  are  no  dead,"  said  Hejrward;  "the  storm  seems  not 
to  have  passed  this  way." 

"That's  manifest;  and  clearer  than  the  heavens  above  our 
heads,"  returned  the  undisturbed  scout;  "but  either  she,  or 
they  that  have  robbed  her,  have  passed  the  bush;  for  I  remem- 
ber the  rag  she  wore  to  hide  a  face  that  all  did  love  to  look  upon. 
Uncas,  you  are  right;  the  dark-hair  has  been  here,  and  she  has 
fled  like  a  frightened  fawn,  to  the  wood;  none  who  could  fly 
would  remain  to  be  murdered.  Let  us  search  for  the  marks  she 
left;  for  to  Indian  eyes,  I  sometimes  think  even  a  humming- 
bird leaves  his  trail  in  the  air." 

The  young  Mohican  darted  away  at  the  suggestion,  and  the 
scout  had  hardly  done  speaking,  before  the  former  raised  a 
cry  of  success  from  the  margin  of  the  forest.  On  reaching  the 
spot,  the  anxious  party  perceived  another  portion  of  the  veil 
fluttering  on  the  lower  branch  of  a  beech. 

"Softly,  softly,"  said  the  scout,  extending  his  long  rifle  in 
front  of  the  eager  Heyward;  "we  now  know  our  work,  but  the 
beauty  of  the  trail  must  not  be  deformed.  A  step  too  soon  may 
give  us  hours  of  trouble.  We  have  them  though;  that  much  is 
beyond  denial." 

"Bless  ye,  bless  ye,  worthy  man!"  exclaimed  Munro, 
"whither,  then,  have  they  fled,  and  where  are  my  babes?" 

"The  path  they  have  taken  depends  on  many  chances.  If 
they  have  gone  alone,  they  are  quite  as  likely  to  move  in  a 
circle  as  straight,  and  they  may  be  within  a  dozen  miles  of  us; 
but  if  the  Hurons,  or  any  of  the  French  Indians,  have  laid 
hands  on  them,  't  is  probable  they  are  now  near  the  borders  of 
the  Canadas.  But  what  matters  that?"  continued  the  deliber- 
ate scout,  observing  the  powerful  anxiety  and  disappointment 
the  listeners  exhibited;  "here  are  the  Mohicans  and  I  on  one 
end  of  the  trail,  and,  rely  on  it,  we  find  the  other,  though  they 
should  be  a  himdred  leagues  asunder!  Gently,  gently,  Uncas, 


iC2  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

you  are  as  impatient  as  a  man  in  the  settlements;  you  forget 
that  light  feet  leave  but  faint  marks!" 

''Hugh!''  exclaimed  Chingachgook,  who  had  been  occupied 
in  examining  an  opening  that  had  been  evidently  made  through 
the  low  underbush,  which  skirted  the  forest;  and  who  now 
stood  erect,  as  he  pointed  downwards,  in  the  attitude  and  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  beheld  a  disgusting  serpent. 

''Here  is  the  palpable  impression  of  the  footstep  of  a  man," 
cried  Hey  ward,  bending  over  the  indicated  spot;  "he  has  trod 
in  the  margin  of  this  pool,  and  the  mark  cannot  be  mistaken. 
They  are  captives." 

''Better  so  than  left  to  starve  in  the  wilderness,"  returned 
the  scout;  "and  they  will  leave  a  wider  trail.  I  would  wager 
fifty  beaver  skins  against  as  many  flints,  that  the  Mohicans 
and  I  enter  their  wigwams  within  the  month!  Stoop  to  it, 
Uncas,  and  try  what  you  can  make  of  the  moccasin;  for  moc- 
casin it  plainly  is,  and  no  shoe." 

The  young  Mohican  bent  over  the  track,  and  removing  the 
scattered  leaves  from  around  the  place,  he  examined  it  with 
much  of  that  sort  of  scrutiny  that  a  money-dealer,  in  these  days 
of  pecuniary  doubts,  would  bestow  on  a  suspected  due-bill. 
At  length  he  arose  from  his  knees,  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
the  examination. 

"Well,  boy,"  demanded  the  attentive  scout,  "what  does  it 
say?  can  you  make  anything  of  the  tell-tale?" 

"LeRenard  Subtil!" 

"Ha!  that  rampaging  devil  again!  there  never  will  be  an  end 
of  his  loping  till  Killdeer  has  said  a  friendly  word  to  him." 

Heyward  reluctantly  admitted  the  truth  of  this  intelligence, 
and  now  expressed  rather  his  hopes  than  his  doubts  by  say- 
ing, — 

"One  moccasin  is  so  much  like  another,  it  is  probable  there 
is  some  mistake." 

"One  moccasin  like  another!  you  may  as  well  say  that  one 
foot  is  like  another;  though  we  all  know  that  some  are  long, 
and  others  short;  some  broad,  and  others  narrow;  some  with 
high,  and  some  with  low  insteps;  some  in-toed,  and  some  out. 
One  moccasin  is  no  more  like  another  than  one  book  is  like 
another;  though  they  who  can  read  in  one  are  seldom  able  to 
tell  the  marks  of  the  other.  Which  is  all  ordered  for  the  best, 


THE  CHASE  103 

giving  to  every  man  his  natural  advantages.  Let  me  get  down 
to  it,  Uncas;  neither  book  nor  moccasin  is  the  worse  for  having 
two  opinions,  instead  of  one."  The  scout  stooped  to  the  task, 
and  instantly  added,  "You  are  right,  boy;  here  is  the  patch  we 
saw  so  often  in  the  other  chase.  And  the  fellow  will  drink  when 
he  can  get  an  opportunity;  your  drinking  Indian  always  learns 
to  walk  with  a  wider  toe  than  the  natural  savage,  it  being  the 
gift  of  a  drunkard  to  straddle,  whether  of  white  or  red  skin. 
'T  is  just  the  length  and  breadth  too!  look  at  it.  Sagamore;  you 
measured  the  prints  more  than  once,  when  we  hunted  the  var- 
ments from  Glenn's  to  the  health-springs." 

Chingachgook  complied;  and  after  finishing  his  short  ex- 
amination, he  arose,  and  with  a  quiet  demeanor,  he  merely 
pronounced  the  word  — 

"Magua!" 

"Aye,  't  is  a  settled  thing;  here  then  have  passed  the  dark- 
hair  and  Magna." 

"And  not  Alice?"  demanded  Heyward. 

"Of  her  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  signs,"  returned  the  scout, 
looking  closely  around  at  the  trees,  the  bushes,  and  the  ground. 
"What  have  we  there?  Uncas,  bring  hither  the  thing  you  see 
dangling  from  yonder  thorn-bush." 

When  the  Indian  had  compKed,  the  scout  received  the  prize, 
and  holding  it  on  high,  he  laughed  in  his  silent  but  heartfelt 
manner. 

"'T  is  the  tooting  weapon  of  the  singer!^  now  we  shall  have 
a  trail  a  priest  might  travel,"  he  said.  "Uncas,  look  for  the 
marks  of  a  shoe  that  is  long  enough  to  uphold  six  feet  two  of 
tottering  human  flesh.  I  begin  to  have  some  hopes  of  the  fellow, 
since  he  has  given  up  squalling  to  follow  some  better  trade." 

"At  least,  he  has  been  faithful  to  his  trust,"  said  Heyward; 
"and  Cora  and  Alice  are  not  without  a  friend." 

"Yes,"  said  Hawk  eye,  dropping  his  rifle,  and  leaning  on  it 
with  an  air  of  visible  contempt,  "he  will  do  their  singing.  Can 
he  slay  a  buck  for  their  dinner,  journey  by  the  moss  on  the 
beeches,  or  cut  the  throat  of  a  Huron?  If  not,  the  first  cat- 
bird 2  he  meets  is  the  cleverest  of  the  two.  Well,  boy,  any 
signs  of  such  a  foimdation?" 

1  The  "bore,"  — David. 

*  The  powers  of  the  American  mocking-bird  are  generally  known.   But  the 


104  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

"Here  is  something  like  the  footstep  of  one  who  has  worn  a 
shoe;  can  it  be  that  of  our  friend?" 

"Touch  the  leaves  lightly,  or  you'll  disconsart  the  forma- 
tion. That!  that  is  the  print  of  a  foot,  but 't  is  the  dark-hair's; 
and  small  it  is,  too,  for  one  of  such  a  noble  height  and  grand 
appearance.  The  singer  would  cover  it  with  his  heel." 

"Where!  let  me  look  on  the  footsteps  of  my  child,"  said 
Munro,  shoving  the  bushes  aside,  and  bending  fondly  over  the 
nearly  obliterated  impression.  Though  the  tread  which  had 
left  the  mark  had  been  light  and  rapid,  it  was  still  plainly  visi- 
ble. The  aged  soldier  examined  it  with  eyes  that  grew  dim  as  he 
gazed;  nor  did  he  rise  from  his  stooping  posture  until  Heyward 
saw  that  he  had  watered  the  trace  of  his  daughter's  passage 
with  a  scalding  tear.  Willing  to  divert  a  distress  which  threat- 
ened each  moment  to  break  through  the  restraint  of  appear- 
ances, by  giving  the  veteran  something  to  do,  the  young  man 
said  to  the  scout,  — 

"As  we  now  possess  these  infallible  signs,  let  us  commence 
our  march.  A  moment,  at  such  a  time,  will  appear  an  age  to 
the  captives." 

"It  is  not  the  swiftest  leaping  deer  that  gives  the  longest 
chase,"  returned  Hawkeye,  without  moving  his  eyes  from  the 
different  marks  that  had  come  under  his  view;  "we  know  that 
the  rampaging  Huron  has  passed,  —  and  the  dark  hair,  —  and 
the  singer,  —  but  where  is  she  of  the  yellow  locks  and  blue 
eyes?  Though  little,  and  far  from  being  as  bold  as  her  sister, 
she  is  fair  to  the  view,  and  pleasant  in  discourse.  Has  she  no 
friend,  that  none  care  for  her?" 

"God  forbid  she  should  ever  want  hundreds!  Are  we  not 
now  in  her  pursuit?  for  one,  I  will  never  cease  the  search  till 
she  be  found." 

"In  that  case  we  may  have  to  journey  by  different  paths; 
for  here  she  has  not  passed,  light  and  little  as  her  footstep 
would  be." 

Heyward  drew  back,  all  his  ardor  to  proceed  seeming  to  van- 
ish on  the  instant.   Without  attending  to  this  suddeti  change 

true  mocking-bird  is  not  found  so  far  north  as  the  State  of  New  York,  where  it 
has,  however,  two  substitutes  of  inferior  excellence:  the  cat-bird,  so  often  named 
by  the  scout,  and  the  bird  vulgarly  called  ground-thresher.  Either  of  these  two 
last  birds  is  superior  to  the  nightingale,  or  the  lark,  though,  in  general,  the 
American  birds  are  less  musical  than  those  of  Europe.  [Author's  note.] 


THE  CHASE 


105 


in  the  other's  humor,  the  scout,  after  musing  a  moment,  con- 
tinued, — 

*^  There  is  no  woman  in  this  wilderness  could  leave  such  a 
print  as  that,  but  the  dark-hair  or  her  sister.  We  know  that 
the  first  has  been  here,  but  where  are  the  signs  of  the  other? 
Let  us  push  deeper  on  the  trail,  and  if  nothing  offers,  we  must 
go  back  to  the  plain  and  strike  another  scent.  Move  on,  Uncas, 
and  keep  your  eyes  on  the  dried  leaves.  I  will  watch  the  bushes, 
while  your  father  shall  run  with  a  low  nose  to  the  ground. 
Move  on,  friends;  the  sun  is  getting  behind  the  hills." 

"Is  there  nothing  that  I  can  do?"  demanded  the  anxious 
Heyward. 

"You!"  repeated  the  scout,  who,  with  his  red  friends,  was 
already  advancing  in  the  order  he  had  prescribed;  "yes,  you 
can  keep  in  our  rear,  and  be  careful  not  to  cross  the  trail." 

Before  they  had  proceeded  many  rods,  the  Indians  stopped, 
and  appeared  to  gaze  at  some  signs  on  the  earth,  with  more  than 
their  usual  keenness.  Both  father  and  son  spoke  quick  and 
loud,  now  looking  at  the  object  of  their  mutual  admiration, 
and  now  regarding  each  other  with  the  most  unequivocal 
pleasure. 

"They  have  found  the  little  foot!"  exclaimed  the  scout, 
moving  forward,  without  attending  further  to  his  own  portion 
of  the  duty.  "What  have  we  here?  An  ambushment  has  been 
planted  in  the  spot!  No,  by  the  truest  rifle  on  the  frontiers, 
here  have  been  them  one-sided  horses  again!  Now  the  whole 
secret  is  out,  and  all  is  plain  as  the  north  star  at  midnight.  Yes, 
here  they  have  mounted.  There  the  beasts  have  been  bound  to 
a  sapling,  in  waiting;  and  yonder  runs  the  broad  path  away  to 
the  north,  in  full  sweep  for  the  Canadas." 

"But  still  there  are  no  signs  of  Alice,  —  of  the  younger  Miss 
Munro,"  said  Duncan. 

"Unless  the  shining  bauble  Uncas  has  just  lifted  from  the 
ground  should  prove  one.  Pass  it  this  way,  lad,  that  we  may 
look  at  it." 

He}'ward  instantly  knew  it  for  a  trinket  that  Alice  was  fond 
of  wearing,  and  which  he  recollected,  with  the  tenacious  mem- 
ory of  a  lover,  to  have  seen,  on  the  fatal  morning  of  the  massa- 
cre, dangling  from  the  fair  neck  of  his  mistress.  He  seized  the 
highly  prized  jewel;  and  as  he  proclaimed  the  fact,  it  vanished 


io6  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

from  the  eyes  of  the  wondering  scout,  who  in  vain  looked  for 
it  on  the  ground,  long  after  it  was  warmly  pressed  against  the 
beating  heart  of  Duncan. 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  disappointed  Hawkeye,  ceasing  to  rake 
the  leaves  with  the  breech  of  his  rifle;  *"t  is  a  certain  sign  of 
age,  when  the  sight  begins  to  weaken.  Such  a  glittering  gewgaw, 
and  not  to  be  seen!  Well,  well,  I  can  squint  along  a  clouded 
barrel  yet,  and  that  is  enough  to  settle  all  disputes  between  me 
and  the  Mingoes.  I  should  like  to  find  the  thing  too,  if  it  were 
only  to  carry  it  to  the  right  owner,  and  that  would  be  bringing 
the  two  ends  of  what  I  call  a  long  trail  together,  —  for  by  this 
time  the  broad  St.  Lawrence,  or,  perhaps,  the  Great  Lakes 
themselves,  are  atwixt  us." 

"So  much  the  more  reason  why  we  should  not  delay  our 
march,"  returned  Heyward;  "let  us  proceed." 

"Young  blood  and  hot  blood,  they  say,  are  much  the  same 
thing.  We  are  not  about  to  start  on  a  squirrel  hunt,  or  to  drive 
a  deer  into  the  Horican,  but  to  outlie  for  days  and  nights,  and 
to  stretch  across  a  wilderness  where  the  feet  of  men  seldom  go, 
and  where  no  bookish  knowledge  would  carry  you  through 
harmless.  An  Indian  never  starts  on  such  an  expedition  with- 
out smoking  over  his  council  fire;  and  though  a  man  of  white 
blood,  I  honor  their  customs  in  this  particular,  seeing  that  they 
are  deliberate  and  wise.  We  will  therefore  go  back,  and  light 
our  fire  to-night  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  fort,  and  in  the  morning 
we  shall  be  fresh,  and  ready  to  undertake  our  work  like  men, 
and  not  like  babbling  women  or  eager  boys." 

Heyivard  saw,  by  the  manner  of  the  scout,  that  altercation 
would  be  useless.  Munro  had  again  sunk  into  that  sort  of 
apathy  which  had  beset  him  since  his  late  overwhelming  mis- 
fortunes, and  from  which  he  was  apparently  to  be  roused  only 
by  some  new  and  powerful  excitement.  Making  a  merit  of 
necessity,  the  young  man  took  the  veteran  by  the  arm,  and 
followed  in  the  footsteps  of  the  Indians  and  the  scout,  who  had 
already  begun  to  retrace  the  path  which  conducted  them  to 
the  plain. 


THE  CHASE 


107 


Sdarino.  —  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt  not  take  his  flesh;  what's  that 
good  for? 

Shylock.  —  To  bait  fish  withal:  if  it  will  feed  nothing  else,  it  will  feed  my  revenge. 

Shakespeare,  Merchant  of  Venice,  m,  i,  53. 

The  shades  of  evening  had  come  to  increase  the  dreariness 
of  the  place,  when  the  party  entered  the  ruins  of  William  Henry. 
The  scout  and  his  companions  immediately  made  their  prepara- 
tions to  pass  the  night  there,  but  with  an  earnestness  and  sobri- 
ety of  demeanor  that  betrayed  how  much  the  unusual  horrors 
they  had  just  witnessed  worked  on  even  their  practiced  feelings. 
A  few  fragments  of  rafters  were  reared  against  a  blackened 
wall;  and  when  Uncas  had  covered  them  sHghtly  with  brush, 
the  temporary  accommodations  were  deemed  sufficient.  The 
young  Indian  pointed  towards  his  rude  hut,  when  his  labor  was 
ended;  and  Heyward,  who  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
silent  gesture,  gently  urged  Munro  to  enter.  Leaving  the  be- 
reaved old  man  alone  with  his  sorrows,  Duncan  immediately 
returned  into  the  open  air,  too  much  excited  himself  to  seek  the 
repose  he  had  recommended  to  his  veteran  friend. 

While  Hawkeye  and  the  Indians  lighted  their  fire,  and  took 
their  evening's  repast,  a  frugal  meal  of  dried  bear's  meat,  the 
young  man  paid  a  visit  to  that  curtain  of  the  dilapidated  fort 
which  looked  out  on  the  sheet  of  the  Horican.  The  wind  had 
fallen,  and  the  waves  were  already  rolling  on  the  sandy  beach 
beneath  him  in  a  more  regular  and  tempered  succession.  The 
clouds,  as  if  tired  of  their  furious  chase,  were  breaking  asunder, 
the  heavier  volumes  gathering  in  black  masses  about  the  hori- 
zon, while  the  lighter  scud  still  hurried  above  the  water,  or 
eddied  among  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  like  broken  flights 
of  birds  hovering  around  their  roosts.  Here  and  there  a  red 
and  fiery  star  struggled  through  the  drifting  vapor,  furnishing 
a  lurid  gleam  of  brightness  to  the  dull  aspect  of  the  heavens. 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  encircling  hills,  an  impenetrable  dark- 
ness had  already  settled;  and  the  plain  lay  like  a  vast  and 
deserted  charnel-house,  without  omen  or  whisper  to  disturb 
the  slumbers  of  its  numerous  and  hapless  tenants. 

Of  this  scene,  so  chillingly  in  accordance  with  the  past, 
Duncan  stood  for  many  minutes  a  rapt  observer.  His  eyes 
wandered  from  the  bosom  of  the  mound,  where  the  foresters 
were  seated  around  their  glimmering  fire,  to  the  fainter  light 
which  still  lingered  in  the  skies,  and  then  rested  long  and 


io8  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

anxiously  on  the  embodied  gloom  which  lay  like  a  dreary  void 
on  that  side  of  him  where  the  dead  reposed.  He  soon  fancied 
that  inexplicable  sounds  arose  from  the  place,  though  so  indis- 
tinct and  stolen  as  to  render  not  only  their  nature  but  even 
their  existence  uncertain.  Ashamed  of  his  apprehensions,  the 
young  man  turned  towards  the  water,  and  strove  to  divert  his 
attention  to  the  mimic  stars  that  dimly  glimmered  on  its  mov- 
ing surface.  Still,  his  too  conscious  ears  performed  their  un- 
grateful duty,  as  if  to  warn  him  of  some  lurking  danger.  At 
length  a  swift  trampHng  seemed,  quite  audibly,  to  rush 
athwart  the  darkness.  Unable  any  longer  to  quiet  his  uneasiness, 
Duncan  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  the  scout,  requesting  him  to 
ascend  the  mound  to  the  place  where  he  stood.  Hawkey e  threw 
his  rifle  across  an  arm,  and  complied,  but  with  an  air  so  un- 
moved and  calm  as  to  prove  how  much  he  counted  on  the 
security  of  their  position. 

"Listen! "  said  Duncan,  when  the  other  placed  himself  delib- 
erately at  his  elbow;  ''there  are  suppressed  noises  on  the  plain, 
which  may  show  that  Montcalm  has  not  yet  entirely  deserted 
his  conquest." 

"Then  ears  are  better  than  eyes,"  said  the  undisturbed  scout, 
who,  having  just  deposited  a  portion  of  a  bear  between  his 
grinders,  spoke  thick  and  slow,  Hke  one  whose  mouth  was 
doubly  occupied.  "I  myself  saw  him  caged  in  Ty,  with  all  his 
host;  for  your  Frenchers,  when  they  have  done  a  clever  thing, 
like  to  get  back,  and  have  a  dance  or  a  merry-making  with  the 
women  over  their  success." 

"I  know  not.  An  Indian  seldom  sleeps  in  war,  and  plun- 
der may  keep  a  Huron  here  after  his  tribe  has  departed.  It 
would  be  well  to  extinguish  the  fire,  and  have  a  watch  — 
listen!  you  hear  the  noise  I  mean!" 

"An  Indian  more  rarely  lurks  about  the  graves.  Though 
ready  to  slay,  and  not  over-regardful  of  the  means,  he  is  com- 
monly content  with  the  scalp,  unless  when  blood  is  hot,  and 
temper  up;  but  after  the  spirit  is  once  fairly  gone,  he  forgets 
his  enmity,  and  is  willing  to  let  the  dead  find  their  natural  rest. 
Speaking  of  spirits.  Major,  are  you  of  opinion  that  the  heaven 
of  a  red-skin  and  of  us  whites  will  be  one  and  the  same?" 

"No  doubt  —  no  doubt.  I  thought  I  heard  it  again!  or  was 
it  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  in  the  top  of  the  beech?" 


THE   CHASE  109 

"For  my  own  part,"  continued  Hawkeye,  turning  his  face, 
for  a  moment,  in  the  direction  indicated  by  Heyward,  but  with 
a  vacant  and  careless  manner,  *'I  believe  that  paradise  is  or- 
dained for  happiness;  and  that  men  will  be  indulged  in  it 
according  to  their  dispositions  and  gifts.  I  therefore  judge  that 
a  red-skin  is  not  far  from  the  truth  when  he  believes  he  is  to 
find  them  glorious  hunting-grounds  of  which  his  traditions 
tell;  nor,  for  that  matter,  do  I  think  it  would  be  any  disparage- 
ment to  a  man  without  a  cross  to  pass  his  time"  — 

"You  hear  it  again?"  interrupted  Duncan. 

"Aye,  aye;  when  food  is  scarce,  and  when  food  is  plenty,  a 
wolf  grows  bold,"  said  the  unmoved  scout.  "There  would  be 
picking,  too,  among  the  skins  of  the  devils,  if  there  was  Ught 
and  time  for  the  sport.  But,  concerning  the  life  that  is  to  come. 
Major:  I  have  heard  preachers  say,  in  the  settlements,  that 
heaven  was  a  place  of  rest.  Now  men's  minds  differ  as  to  their 
ideas  of  enjo>Tnent.  For  myself,  and  I  say  it  with  reverence  to 
the  ordering  of  Pro\ddence,  it  would  be  no  great  indulgence  to 
be  kept  shut  up  in  those  mansions  of  which  they  preach,  having 
a  natural  longing  for  motion  and  the  chase." 

Duncan,  who  was  now  made  to  understand  the  nature  of 
the  noises  he  had  heard,  answered,  with  more  attention  to  the 
subject  which  the  humor  of  the  scout  had  chosen  for  discussion, 
by  saying,  — 

"It  is  difficult  to  accoimt  for  the  feelings  that  may  attend 
the  last  great  change." 

"It  would  be  a  change,  indeed,  for  a  man  who  has  passed  Kis 
days  in  the  open  air,"  returned  the  single-minded  scout;  "and 
w^ho  has  so  often  broken  his  fast  on  the  head  waters  of  the 
Hudson,  to  sleep  within  sound  of  the  roaring  Mohawk.  But 
it  is  a  comfort  to  know  we  serve  a  merciful  Master,  though  we 
do  it  each  after  his  fashion,  and  with  great  tracts  of  wilderness 
atween  us  —  what  goes  there?" 

"Is  it  not  the  rushing  of  the  wolves  you  have  mentioned?" 

Hawkeye  slowly  shook  his  head,  and  beckoned  for  Duncan 
to  follow  him  to  a  spot  to  which  the  glare  from  the  fire  did  not 
extend.  When  he  had  taken  this  precaution,  the  scout  placed 
himself  in  an  attitude  of  intense  attention,  and  listened  long 
and  keenly  for  a  repetition  of  the  low  sound  that  had  so  unex- 
pectedly startled  him.    His  vigilance,  however,  seemed  exer- 


no  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

cised  in  vain;  for  after  a  fruitless  pause  he  whispered  to 
Duncan,  — 

**  We  must  give  a  call  to  Uncas.  The  boy  has  Indian  senses, 
and  may  hear  what  is  hid  from  us;  for  being  a  white-skin,  I  will 
not  deny  my  nature." 

The  young  Mohican,  who  was  conversing  in  a  low  voice  with 
his  father,  started  as  he  heard  the  moaning  of  an  owl,  and 
springing  on  his  feet  he  looked  towards  the  black  mounds,  as  if 
seeking  the  place  whence  the  sounds  proceeded.  The  scout  re- 
peated the  call,  and  in  a  few  moments  Duncan  saw  the  figure 
of  Uncas  stealing  cautiously  along  the  rampart,  to  the  spot 
where  they  stood. 

Hawkeye  explained  his  wishes  in  a  very  few  words,  which 
were  spoken  in  the  Delaware  tongue.  So  soon  as  Uncas  was  in 
possession  of  the  reason  why  he  was  summoned,  he  threw  him- 
self flat  on  the  turf,  where,  to  the  eyes  of  Duncan,  he  appeared 
to  lie  quiet  and  motionless.  Surprised  at  the  immovable  atti- 
tude of  the  young  warrior,  and  curious  to  observe  the  manner 
in  which  he  employed  his  faculties  to  obtain  the  desired  infor- 
mation, Heyward  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  bent  over  the 
dark  object  on  which  he  had  kept  his  eyes  riveted.  Then  it 
was  he.  discovered  that  the  form  of  Uncas  had  vanished,  and 
that  he  beheld  only  the  dark  outline  of  an  inequality  in  the 
embankment. 

"What  has  become  of  the  Mohican?"  he  demanded  of  the 
scout,  stepping  back  in  amazement;  *'it  was  here  that  I  saw 
him  fall,  and  I  could  have  sworn  that  here  he  yet  remained." 

*'Hist!  speak  lower;  for  we  know  not  what  ears  are  open, 
and  the  Mingoes  are  a  quick-witted  breed.  As  for  Uncas,  he  is 
out  on  the  plain,  and  the  Maquas,  if  any  such  are  about  us, 
will  find  their  equal." 

"You  think  that  Montcalm  has  not  called  off  all  his  Indians? 
Let  us  give  the  alarm  to  our  companions,  that  we  may  stand  to 
our  arms.  Here  are  five  of  us,  who  are  not  unused  to  meet  an 
enemy." 

"Not  a  word  to  either,  as  you  value  life.  Look  at  the  Saga- 
more, how  like  a  grand  Indian  chief  he  sits  by  the  fire.  If  there 
are  any  skulkers  out  in  the  darkness,  they  will  never  discover, 
by  his  countenance,  that  we  suspect  danger  at  hand." 

"But  they  may  discover  him,  and  it  will  prove  his  death. 


THE    CHASE  iii 

His  person  can  be  too  plainly  seen  by  the  light  of  that  fire,  and 
he  will  become  the  first  and  most  certain  victim." 

"It  is  undeniable  that  now  you  speak  the  truth,"  returned 
the  scout,  betraying  more  anxiety  than  was  usual;  "yet  what 
can  be  done?  A  single  suspicious  look  might  bring  on  an  attack 
before  we  are  ready  to  receive  it.  He  knows,  by  the  call  I  gave 
to  Uncas,  that  we  have  struck  a  scent:  I  will  tell  him  that  we 
are  on  the  trail  of  the  Mingoes;  his  Indian  nature  will  teach 
him  how  to  act." 

The  scout  applied  his  fingers  to  his  mouth,  and  raised  a  slow 
hissing  sound,  that  caused  Duncan,  at  first,  to  start  aside, 
belie\dng  that  he  heard  a  serpent.  The  head  of  Chingachgook 
was  resting  on  a  hand,  as  he  sat  musing  by  himself;  but  the 
moment  he  heard  the  warning  of  the  animal  whose  name  he 
bore,  it  rose  to  an  upright  position,  and  his  dark  eyes  glanced 
swiftly  and  keenly  on  every  side  of  him.  With  this  sudden  and 
perhaps  involuntary  movement,  every  appearance  of  surprise 
or  alarm  ended.  His  rifle  lay  untouched,  and  apparently  un- 
noticed, within  reach  of  his  hand.  The  tomahawk  that  he  had 
loosened  in  his  belt  for  the  sake  of  ease,  was  even  suffered  to 
fall  from  its  usual  situation  to  the  ground,  and  his  form  seemed 
to  sink,  like  that  of  a  man  whose  nerves  and  sinews  were  suf- 
fered to  relax  for  the  purpose  of  rest.  Cunningly  resmning  his 
former  position,  though  with  a  change  of  hands,  as  if  the 
movement  had  been  made  merely  to  relieve  the  limb,  the  native 
awaited  the  result  with  a  calmness  and  fortitude  that  none  but 
an  Indian  warrior  would  have  known  how  to  exercise. 

But  Heyward  saw  that  while  to  a  less  instructed  eye  the 
Mohican  chief  appeared  to  slumber,  his  nostrils  were  expanded, 
his  head  was  turned  a  httle  to  one  side,  as  if  to  assist  the  organs 
of  hearing,  and  that  his  quick  and  rapid  glances  ran  incessantly 
over  every  object  within  the  power  of  his  vision. 

"See  the  noble  fellow!"  whispered  Hawkeye,  pressing  the 
arm  of  Heyward;  "he  knows  that  a  look  or  a  motion  might 
disconsart  our  schemes,  and  put  us  at  the  mercy  of  them 
imps"  — 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  flash  and  report  of  a  rifle.  The 
air  was  filled  with  sparks  of  fire,  around  that  spot  where  the 
eyes  of  Heyward  were  still  fastened  with  admiration  and  won- 
der.  A  second  look  told  him  that  Chingachgook  had  disap- 


112  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

peared  in  the  confusion.  In  the  meantime,  the  scout  had  thrown 
forward  his  rifle,  like  one  prepared  for  service,  and  awaited  im- 
patiently the  moment  when  an  enemy  might  rise  to  view.  But 
with  the  solitary  and  fruitless  attempt  made  on  the  life  of 
Chingachgook,  the  attack  appeared  to  have  terminated.  Once 
or  twice  the  listeners  thought  they  could  distinguish  the  dis- 
tant rustling  of  bushes,  as  bodies  of  some  unknown  description 
rushed  through  them;  nor  was  it  long  before  Hawkeye  pointed 
out  the  "scampering  of  the  wolves,"  as  they  fled  precipitately 
before  the  passage  of  some  intruder  on  their  proper  domains. 
After  an  impatient  and  breathless  pause,  a  plunge  was  heard 
in  the  water,  and  it  was  immediately  followed  by  the  report  of 
another  rifle. 

"There  goes  Uncas!"  said  the  scout:  "the  boy  bears  a  smart 
piece !  I  know  its  crack,  as  well  as  a  father  knows  the  language 
of  his  child,  for  I  carried  the  gun  myself  until  a  better  offered." 

"What  can  this  mean?"  demanded  Duncan:  "we  are 
watched,  and,  as  it  would  seem,  marked  for  destruction." 

"Yonder  scattered  brand  can  witness  that  no  good  was  in- 
tended, and  this  Indian  will  testify  that  no  harm  has  been 
done,"  returned  the  scout,  dropping  his  rifle  across  his  arm 
again,  and  following  Chingachgook,  who  just  then  reappeared 
within  the  circle  of  light,  into  the  bosom  of  the  works.  "How 
is  it,  Sagamore?  Are  the  Mingoes  upon  us  in  earnest,  or  is  it 
only  one  of  those  reptiles  who  hang  upon  the  skirts  of  a  war 
party,  to  scalp  the  dead,  go  in,  and  make  their  boast  among  the 
squaws  of  the  valiant  deeds  done  on  the  pale-faces?" 

Chingachgook  very  quietly  resumed  his  seat;  nor  did  he  make 
any  reply,  until  after  he  had  examined  the  firebrand  which  had 
been  struck  by  the  bullet,  that  had  nearly  proved  fatal  to  him- 
self. After  which,  he  was  content  to  reply,  holding  a  single 
finger  up  to  view,  with  the  English  monosyllable,  — 

"One." 

*^I  thought  as  much,"  returned  Hawkeye,  seating  himself; 
"and  as  he  had  got  the  cover  of  the  lake  afore  Uncas  pulled 
upon  him,  it  is  more  than  probable  the  knave  will  sing  his  lies 
about  some  great  ambushment,  in  which  he  was  outlying  on 
the  trail  of  two  Mohicans  and  a  white  hunter — for  the  officers 
can  be  considered  as  little  better  than  idlers  in  such  a  skrim- 
mage.  Well,  let  him  —  let  him.  There  are  always  some  honest 


THE   CHASE  113 

men  in  every  nation,  though  heaven  knows,  too,  that  they  are 
scarce  among  the  Maquas,  to  look  down  an  upstart  when  he 
brags  ag'in  the  face  of  reason.  The  varlet  sent  his  lead  within 
whistle  of  your  ears.  Sagamore." 

Chingachgook  turned  a  cahn  and  incurious  eye  towards  the 
place  where  the  ball  had  struck,  and  then  resumed  his  former 
attitude,  with  a  composure  that  could  not  be  disturbed  by  so 
trifling  an  incident.  Just  then  Uncas  gUded  into  the  circle,  and 
seated  himself  at  the  fire,  with  the  same  appearance  of  indiffer- 
ence as  was  maintained  by  his  father. 

Of  these  several  movements  Heyward  was  a  deeply  inter- 
ested and  wondering  observer.  It  appeared  to  him  as  though 
the  foresters  had  some  secret  means  of  intelHgence,  which  had 
escaped  the  vigilance  of  his  own  faculties.  In  place  of  that 
eager  and  garrulous  narration  with  which  a  white  youth  would 
have  endeavored  to  communicate,  and  perhaps  exaggerate, 
that  which  had  passed  out  in  the  darkness  of  the  plain,  the 
young  warrior  was  seemingly  content  to  let  his  deeds  speak  for 
themselves.  It  was,  in  fact,  neither  the  moment  nor  the  occa- 
sion for  an  Indian  to  boast  of  his  exploits;  and  it  is  probable 
that  had  Heyward  neglected  to  inquire,  not  another  syllable 
would,  just  then,  have  been  uttered  on  the  subject. 

"What  has  become  of  our  enemy,  Uncas?"  demanded  Dun- 
can: "we  heard  your  rifle,  and  hoped  you  had  not  fired  in  vain." 

The  young  chief  removed  a  fold  of  his  hunting  shirt,  and 
quietly  exposed  the  fatal  tuft  of  hair,  which  he  bore  as  the  sym- 
bol of  victory.  Chingachgook  laid  his  hand  on  the  scalp,  and 
considered  it  for  a  moment  with  deep  attention.  Then  dropping 
it,  with  disgust  depicted  in  his  strong  features,  he  ejaculated,  — 

"Oneida!" 

"Oneida!"  repeated  the  scout,  who  was  fast  losing  his  in- 
terest in  the  scene,  in  an  apathy  nearly  assimilated  to  that  of 
his  red  associates,  but  who  now  advanced  with  uncommon 
earnestness  to  regard  the  bloody  badge.  "By  the  Lord,  if  the 
Oneidas  are  out4ying  upon  the  trail,  we  shall  be  flanked  by 
devils  on  every  side  of  us !  Now,  to  white  eyes  there  is  no  differ- 
ence between  this  bit  of  skin  and  that  of  any  other  Indian,  and 
yet  the  Sagamore  declares  it  came  from  the  poll  of  a  Mingo; 
nay,  he  even  names  the  tribe  of  the  poor  de\^l  with  as  much 
ease  as  if  the  scalp  was  the  leaf  of  a  book,  and  each  hair  a  letter. 


114  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

What  right  have  Christian  whites  to  boast  of  their  learning, 
when  a  savage  can  read  a  language  that  would  prove  too  much 
for  the  wisest  of  them  all!  What  say  you,  lad;  of  what  people 
was  the  knave?'' 

Uncas  raised  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  scout,  and  answered, 
in  his  soft  voice,  — 

"Oneida." 

"Oneida,  again!  when  one  Indian  makes  a  declaration  it  is 
commonly  true;  but  when  he  is  supported  by  his  people,  set  it 
down  as  gospel!" 

*  *  The  poor  fellow  has  mistaken  us  for  French , ' '  said  Heyward ; 
"or  he  would  not  have  attempted  the  life  of  a  friend." 

"He  mistake  a  Mohican  in  his  paint  for  a  Huron!  You 
would  be  as  likely  to  mistake  the  white-coated  grenadiers  of 
Montcalm  for  the  scarlet  jackets  of  the  'Royal  Americans,'" 
returned  the  scout.  "No,  no,  the  sarpent  knew  his  errand;  nor 
was  there  any  great  mistake  in  the  matter,  for  there  is  but  little 
love  atween  a  Delaware  and  a  Mingo,  let  their  tribes  go  out  to 
fight  for  whom  they  may,  in  a  white  quarrel.  For  that  matter, 
though  the  Oneidas  do  serve  his  sacred  Majesty,  who  is  my 
own  sovereign  lord  and  master,  I  should  not  have  deliberated 
long  about  letting  off  Killdeer  at  the  imp  myself  had  luck 
thrown  him  in  my  way." 

"That  would  have  been  an  abuse  of  our  treaties,  and  un- 
worthy of  your  character." 

"When  a  man  consorts  much  with  a  people,"  continued 
Hawkeye,  "if  they  are  honest  and  he  no  knave,  love  will  grow 
up  atwixt  them.  It  is  true  that  white  cunning  has  managed  to 
throw  the  tribes  into  great  confusion,  as  respects  friends  and 
enemies;  so  that  the  Hurons  and  the  Oneidas,  who  speak  the 
same  tongue,  or  what  may  be  called  the  same,  take  each  other's 
scalps,  and  the  Delawares  are  divided  among  themselves;  a 
few  hanging  about  their  great  council  fire  on  their  own  river, 
and  fighting  on  the  same  side  with  the  Mingoes,  while  the 
greater  part  are  in  the  Canadas,  out  of  natural  enmity  to  the 
Maquas  —  thus  throwing  everything  into  disorder,  and  de- 
stroying all  the  harmony  of  warfare.  Yet  a  red  natur'  is  not 
likely  to  alter  with  every  shift  of  policy;  so  that  the  love 
atwixt  a  Mohican  and  a  Mingo  is  much  like  the  regard  be- 
tween a  white  man  and  a  sarpent." 


THE   CHASE  115 

*'I  regret  to  hear  it;  for  I  had  believed  those  natives  who 
dwelt  within  our  boundaries  had  found  us  too  just  and  liberal, 
not  to  identify  themselves  fully  with  our  quarrels." 

"Why,  I  beheve  it  is  natur'  to  give  a  preference  to  one's 
own  quarrels  before  those  of  strangers.  Now,  for  myself,  I  do 
love  justice;  and  therefore  I  will  not  say  I  hate  a  Mingo,  for 
that  may  be  unsuitable  to  my  color  and  my  religion,  though  I 
will  just  repeat,  it  may  have  been  owing  to  the  night  that 
Killdeer  had  no  hand  in  the  death  of  this  skulking  Oneida." 

Then,  as  if  satisfied  with  the  force  of  his  own  reasons,  what- 
ever might  be  their  efifect  on  the  opinions  of  the  other  dispu- 
tant, the  honest  but  implacable  woodsman  turned  from  the  fire, 
content  to  let  the  controversy  slumber.  Heyward  withdrew  to 
the  rampart,  too  uneasy  and  too  little  accustomed  to  the  war- 
fare of  the  woods  to  remain  at  ease  under  the  possibility  of  such 
insidious  attacks.  Not  so,  however,  with  the  scout  and  the 
Mohicans.  Those  acute  and  long  practiced  senses,  whose 
powers  so  often  exceed  the  limits  of  all  ordinary  credulity,  after 
having  detected  the  danger,  had  enabled  them  to  ascertain  its 
magnitude  and  duration.  Not  one  of  the  three  appeared  in 
the  least  to  doubt  their  perfect  security,  as  was  indicated  by 
the  preparations  that  were  soon  made  to  sit  in  council  over 
their  future  proceedings. 

The  confusion  of  nations,  and  even  of  tribes,  to  which 
Hawkey e  alluded,  existed  at  that  period  in  the  fullest  force. 
The  great  tie  of  language,  and,  of  course,  of  a  common  origin, 
was  severed  in  many  places;  and  it  was  one  of  its  consequences, 
that  the  Delaware  and  the  Mingo  (as  the  people  of  the  Six 
Nations  were  called)  were  found  fighting  in  the  same  ranks, 
while  the  latter  sought  the  scalp  of  the  Huron,  though  beUeved 
to  be  the  root  of  his  own  stock.  The  Delawares  were  even  di- 
vided among  themselves.  Though  love  for  the  soil  which  had 
belonged  to  his  ancestors  kept  the  Sagamore  of  the  Mohicans 
with  a  small  band  of  followers  who  were  serving  at  Edward, 
under  the  banners  of  the  English  king,  by  far  the  largest  por- 
tion of  his  nation  were  known  to  be  in  the  field  as  allies  of 
Montcalm.  The  reader  probably  knows,  if  enough  has  not 
already  been  gleaned  from  this  narrative,  that  the  Delaware, 
or  Lenape,  claimed  to  be  the  progenitors  of  that  numerous 
people  who  once  were  masters  of  most  of  the  Eastern  and 


ii6  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

Northern  States  of  America,  of  whom  the  community  of  the 
Mohicans  was  an  ancient  and  highly  honored  member. 

It  was,  of  course,  with  a  perfect  understanding  of  the  minute 
and  intricate  interests  which  had  armed  friend  against  friend, 
and  brought  natural  enemies  to  combat  by  each  other's  side, 
that  the  scout  and  his  companions  now  disposed  themselves  to 
deliberate  on  the  measures  that  were  to  govern  their  future 
movements,  amid  so  many  jarring  and  savage  races  of  men. 
Duncan  knew  enough  of  Indian  customs  to  understand  the 
reason  that  the  fire  was  replenished,  and  why  the  warriors,  not 
excepting  Hawkeye,  took  their  seats  within  the  curl  of  its 
smoke  with  so  much  gravity  and  decorum.  Placing  himself  at 
an  angle  of  the  works,  where  he  might  be  a  spectator  of  the 
scene  within,  while  he  kept  a  watchful  eye  against  any  danger 
from  without,  he  awaited  the  result  with  as  much  patience  as 
he  could  summon. 

After  a  short  and  impressive  pause,  Chingachgook  lighted  a 
pipe  whose  bowl  was  curiously  carved  in  one  of  the  soft  stones 
of  the  country,  and  whose  stem  was  a  tube  of  wood,  and  com- 
menced smoking.  When  he  had  inhaled  enough  of  the  fragrance 
of  the  soothing  weed,  he  passed  the  instrument  into  the  hands 
of  the  scout.  In  this  manner  the  pipe  had  made  its  rounds  three 
several  times,  amid  the  most  profound  silence,  before  either  of 
the  party  opened  his  lips.  Then  the  Sagamore,  as  the  oldest 
and  highest  in  rank,  in  a  few  calm  and  dignified  words  proposed 
the  subject  for  deliberation.  He  was  answered  by  the  scout, 
and  Chingachgook  rejoined  when  the  other  objected  to  his 
opinions.  But  the  youthful  Uncas  continued  a  silent  and  re- 
spectful listener,  until  Hawkeye,  in  complaisance,  demanded 
his  opinion.  Hey  ward  gathered  from  the  manners  of  the  differ- 
ent speakers  that  the  father  and  son  espoused  one  side  of  a  dis- 
puted question,  while  the  white  man  maintained  the  other. 
The  contest  gradually  grew  warmer,  until  it  was  quite  evident 
the  feelings  of  the  speakers  began  to  be  somewhat  enlisted  in 
the  debate. 

Notwithstanding  the  increasing  warmth  of  the  amicable 
contest,  the  most  decorous  Christian  assembly,  not  even  ex- 
cepting those  in  which  its  reverend  ministers  are  collected, 
might  have  learned  a  wholesome  lesson  of  moderation  from  the 
forbearance  and  courtesy  of  the  disputants.    The  words  of 


THE   CHASE  117 

Uncas  were  received  with  the  same  deep  attention  as  those 
which  fell  from  the  maturer  wisdom  of  his  father;  and  so  far 
from  manifesting  any  impatience,  neither  spoke  in  reply,  until 
a  few  moments  of  silent  meditation  were,  seemingly,  bestowed 
in  deUberating  on  what  had  already  been  said. 

The  language  of  the  Mohicans  was  accompanied  by  gestures 
so  direct  and  natural,  that  Heyward  had  but  little  difficulty  in 
following  the  thread  of  their  argument.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  scout  was  obscure;  because,  from  the  Hngering  pride  of 
color,  he  rather  affected  the  cold  and  artificial  manner  which 
characterizes  all  classes  of  Anglo-Americans,  when  unexcited. 
By  the  frequency  with  which  the  Indians  described  the  marks 
of  a  forest  trail,  it  was  evident  they  urged  a  pursuit  by  land, 
while  the  repeated  sweep  of  Hawkeye's  arm  towards  the 
Horican  denoted  that  he  was  for  a  passage  across  its  waters. 

The  latter  was,  to  every  appearance,  fast  losing  ground,  and 
the  point  was  about  to  be  decided  against  him,  when  he  arose 
to  his  feet,  and  shaking  off  his  apathy,  he  suddenly  assumed 
the  manner  of  an  Indian,  and  adopted  all  the  arts  of  native 
eloquence.  Elevating  an  arm,  he  pointed  out  the  track  of  the 
sun,  repeating  the  gesture  for  every  day  that  was  necessary  to 
accomplish  their  object.  Then  he  deHneated  a  long  and  painful 
path,  amid  rocks  and  water-courses.  The  age  and  weakness  of 
the  slumbering  and  unconscious  Munro  were  indicated  by  signs 
too  palpable  to  be  mistaken.  Duncan  perceived  that  even  his 
owTi  powers  were  spoken  lightly  of,  as  the  scout  extended  his 
palm,  and  mentioned  him  by  the  appellation  of  the  "Open 
Hand,"  —  a  name  his  liberaHty  had  purchased  of  all  the 
friendly  tribes.  Then  came  a  representation  of  the  Ught  and 
graceful  movements  of  a  canoe,  set  in  forcible  contrast  to  the 
tottering  steps  of  one  enfeebled  and  tired.  He  concluded  by 
pointing  to  the  scalp  of  the  Oneida,  and  apparently  urging  the 
necessity  of  their  departing  speedily,  and  in  a  manner  that 
should  leave  no  trail. 

The  Mohicans  listened  gravely,  and  with  countenances  that 
reflected  the  sentiments  of  the  speaker.  Conviction  gradually 
wrought  its  influence,  and  towards  the  close  of  Hawkeye's 
speech,  his  sentences  were  accompanied  by  the  customary 
exclamation  of  commendation.  In  short,  Uncas  and  his  father 
became  converts  to  his  way  of  thinking,  abandoning  their  own 


ii8  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

previously  expressed  opinions  with  a  liberality  and  candor  that, 
had  they  been  the  representatives  of  some  great  and  civilized 
people,  would  have  infallibly  worked  their  political  ruin,  by 
destroying  forever  their  reputation  for  consistency. 

The  instant  the  matter  in  discussion  was  decided,  the  debate, 
and  everything  connected  with  it,  except  the  result,  appeared 
to  be  forgotten.  Hawkeye,  without  looking  round  to  read  his 
triumph  in  applauding  eyes,  very  composedly  stretched  his 
tall  frame  before  the  dying  embers,  and  closed  his  own  organs 
in  sleep. 

Left  now  in  a  measure  to  themselves,  the  Mohicans,  whose 
time  had  been  so  much  devoted  to  the  interests  of  others, 
seized  the  moment  to  devote  some  attention  to  themselves. 
Casting  off,  at  once,  the  grave  and  austere  demeanor  of  an 
Indian  chief,  Chingachgook  commenced  speaking  to  his  son  in 
the  soft  and  playful  tones  of  affection.  Uncas  gladly  met  the 
familiar  air  of  his  father;  and  before  the  hard  breathing  of  the 
scout  announced  that  he  slept,  a  complete  change  was  effected 
in  the  manner  of  his  two  associates. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  music  of  their  language,  while 
thus  engaged  in  laughter  and  endearments,  in  such  a  way  as  to 
render  it  intelligible  to  those  whose  ears  have  never  listened  to 
its  melody.  The  compass  of  their  voices,  particularly  that  of 
the  youth,  was  wonderful,  —  extending  from  the  deepest  bass 
to  tones  that  were  even  feminine  in  softness.  The  eyes  of  the 
father  followed  the  plastic  and  ingenious  movements  of  the 
son  with  open  delight,  and  he  never  failed  to  smile  in  reply  to 
the  other's  contagious,  but  low  laughter.  While  under  the  in- 
fluence of  these  gentle  and  natural  feelings,  no  trace  of  feroc- 
ity was  to  be  seen  in  the  softened  features  of  the  Sagamore. 
His  figured  panoply  of  death  looked  more  like  a  disguise  as- 
sumed in  mockery,  than  a  fierce  annunciation  of  a  desire  to 
carry  destruction  in  his  footsteps. 

After  an  hour  passed  in  the  indulgence  of  their  better  feel- 
ings, Chingachgook  abruptly  announced  his  desire  to  sleep,  by 
wrapping  his  head  in  his  blanket,  and  stretching  his  form  on 
the  naked  earth.  The  merriment  of  Uncas  instantly  ceased; 
and  carefully  raking  the  coals  in  such  a  manner  that  they 
should  impart  their  warmth  to  his  father's  feet,  the  youth 
sought  his  own  pillow  among  the  ruins  of  the  place. 


THE   CHASE  119 

Imbibing  renewed  confidence  from  the  security  of  these  ex- 
perienced foresters,  Heyward  soon  imitated  their  example; 
and  long  before  the  night  had  turned,  they  who  lay  in  the  bosom 
of  the  ruined  work  seemed  to  slumber  as  heavily  as  the  uncon- 
scious multitude  whose  bones  were  already  beginning  to  bleach 
on  the  surrounding  plain. 


Land  of  Albania!  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men! 

Byron,  Ckilde  Harold,  canto  n,  xxxviii. 

The  heavens  were  still  studded  with  stars  when  Hawkeye 
came  to  arouse  the  sleepers.  Casting  aside  their  cloaks,  Munro 
and  Heyward  were  on  their  feet  while  the  woodsman  was  still 
making  his  low  calls,  at  the  entrance  of  the  rude  shelter  where 
they  had  passed  the  night.  When  they  issued  from  beneath  its 
concealment,  they  found  the  scout  awaiting  their  appearance 
nigh  by,  and  the  only  salutation  between  them  was  the  signifi- 
cant gesture  for  silence,  made  by  their  sagacious  leader. 

"  Think  over  your  prayers,"  he  whispered,  as  they  approached 
him;  "for  He  to  whom  you  make  them  knows  all  tongues;  that 
of  the  heart,  as  well  as  those  of  the  mouth.  But  speak  not  a 
syllable;  it  is  rare  for  a  white  voice  to  pitch  itself  properly  in 
the  woods,  as  we  have  seen  by  the  example  of  that  miserable 
devil,  the  singer.  Come,"  he  continued,  turning  towards  a 
curtain  of  the  works;  "let  us  get  into  the  ditch  on  this  side,  and 
be  regardful  to  step  on  the  stones  and  fragments  of  wood  as 
you  go." 

His  companions  complied,  though  to  two  of  them  the  reasons 
of  this  extraordiaary  precaution  were  yet  a  mystery.  When 
they  were  ia  the  low  cavity  that  surrounded  the  earthen  fort 
on  three  sides,  they  found  the  passage  nearly  choked  by  the 
ruins.  With  care  and  patience,  however,  they  succeeded  in 
clambering  after  the  scout,  until  they  reached  the  sandy  shore 
of  the  Horican. 

"That's  a  trail  that  nothing  but  a  nose  can  follow,"  said  the 
satisfied  scout,  looking  back  along  their  difficult  way;  "grass  is 
a  treacherous  carpet  for  a  flying  party  to  tread  on,  but  wood 
and  stone  take  no  print  from  a  moccasin.  Had  you  worn  your 
armed  boots,  there  might,  indeed,  have  been  something  to 
fear;  but  with  the  deer-skin  suitably  prepared,  a  man  may  trust 


I20  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

himself,  generally,  on  rocks  with  safety.  Shove  in  the  canoe 
nigher  to  the  land,  Uncas;  this  sand  will  take  a  stamp  as  easily 
as  the  butter  of  the  Jarmans  on  the  Mohawk.  Softly,  lad, 
softly;  it  must  not  touch  the  beach,  or  the  knaves  will  know  by 
what  road  we  have  left  the  place." 

The  young  man  observed  the  precaution;  and  the  scout,  lay- 
ing a  board  from  the  ruins  to  the  canoe,  made  a  sign  for  the 
two  officers  to  enter.  When  this  was  done,  everything  was 
studiously  restored  to  its  former  disorder;  and  then  Hawkeye 
succeeded  in  reaching  his  little  birchen  vessel  without  leaving 
behind  him  any  of  those  marks  which  he  appeared  so  much  to 
dread.  Heyward  was  silent,  until  the  Indians  had  cautiously 
paddled  the  canoe  some  distance  from  the  fort,  and  within  the 
broad  and  dark  shadow  that  fell  from  the  eastern  mountain  on 
the  glassy  surface  of  the  lake;  then  he  demanded,  — 

"What  need  have  we  for  this  stolen  and  hurried  departure? " 

"If  the  blood  of  an  Oneida  could  stain  such  a  sheet  of  pure 
water  as  this  we  float  on,"  returned  the  scout,  "your  two  eyes 
would  answer  your  own  question.  Have  you  forgotten  the 
skulking  reptyle  that  Uncas  slew?" 

"By  no  means.  But  he  was  said  to  be  alone,  and  dead  men 
give  no  cause  for  fear." 

"Aye,  he  was  alone  in  his  deviltry!  but  an  Indian  whose 
tribe  counts  so  many  warriors  need  seldom  fear  his  blood  will 
run  without  the  death-shriek  coming  speedily  from  some  of  his 
enemies." 

"But  our  presence  —  the  authority  of  Colonel  Munro  — 
would  prove  a  sufficient  protection  against  the  danger  of  our 
aUies,  especially  in  a  case  where  the  wretch  so  well  merited  his 
fate.  I  trust  in  Heaven  you  have  not  deviated  a  single  foot 
from  the  direct  line  of  our  course,  with  so  slight  a  reason!" 

"Do  you  think  the  bullet  of  that  varlet's  rifle  would  have 
turned  aside,  though  his  sacred  Majesty  the  King  had  stood  in 
its  path?"  returned  the  stubborn  scout.  "Why  did  not  the 
grand  Frencher,  he  who  is  captain-general  of  the  Canadas, 
bury  the  tomahawks  of  the  Hurons,  if  a  word  from  a  white 
can  work  so  strongly  on  the  natur'  of  an  Indian?" 

The  reply  of  Heyward  was  interrupted  by  a  groan  from 
Munro ;  but  after  he  had  paused  a  moment,  in  deference  to  the 
sorrow  of  his  aged  friend,  he  resumed  the  subject. 


THE   CHASE  121 

"The  Marquis  of  Montcalm  can  only  settle  that  error  with 
his  God/'  said  the  young  man  solemnly. 

"Aye,  aye;  now  there  is  reason  in  your  words,  for  they  are 
bottomed  on  religion  and  honesty.  There  is  a  vast  difference 
between  throwing  a  regiment  of  white  coats  atwixt  the  tribes 
and  the  prisoners,  and  coaxing  an  angry  savage  to  forget  he 
carries  a  knife  and  a  rifle,  with  words  that  must  begin  with 
calling  him  your  son.  No,  no,"  continued  the  scout,  looking 
back  at  the  dim  shore  of  William  Henry,  which  was  now  fast 
receding,  and  laughing  in  his  own  silent  but  heartfelt  manner; 
"I  have  put  a  trail  of  water  atween  us;  and  unless  the  imps 
can  make  friends  with  the  fishes,  and  hear  who  has  paddled 
across  their  basin  this  fine  morning,  we  shall  throw  the  length 
of  the  Horican  behind  us  before  they  have  made  up  their  minds 
which  path  to  take." 

"With  foes  in  front,  and  foes  in  our  rear,  our  journey  is  like 
to  be  one  of  danger." 

"Danger!"  repeated  Hawkeye,  calmly;  "no,  not  absolutely 
of  danger;  for,  with  vigilant  ears  and  quick  eyes,  we  can  man- 
age to  keep  a  few  hours  ahead  of  the  knaves;  or,  if  we  must  try 
the  rifle,  there  are  three  of  us  who  understand  its  gifts  as  well  as 
any  you  can  name  on  the  borders.  No,  not  of  danger;  but  that 
we  shall  have  what  you  may  call  a  brisk  push  of  it,  is  probable; 
and  it  may  happen,  a  brush,  a  skrimmage,  or  some  such  divar- 
sion,  but  always  where  covers  are  good,  and  ammunition  abun- 
dant." 

It  is  possible  that  Heyward's  estimate  of  danger  differed  in 
some  degree  from  that  of  the  scout,  for,  instead  of  replying,  he 
now  sat  in  silence,  while  the  canoe  gUded  over  several  miles  of 
water.  Just  as  the  day  dawned,  they  entered  the  narrows  of 
the  lake,^  and  stole  swiftly  and  cautiously  among  their  number- 

^  The  beauties  of  Lake  George  are  well  known  to  every  American  tourist.  In 
the  height  of  the  mountains  which  surround  it,  and  in  artificial  accessories,  it  is 
inferior  to  the  finest  of  the  Swiss  and  Italian  lakes,  while  in  outline  and  purity 
of  water  it  is  fully  their  equal,  and  in  the  number  and  disposition  of  its  isles  and 
islets  much  superior  to  them  all  together.  There  are  said  to  be  some  himdreds  of 
islands  in  a  sheet  of  water  less  than  thirty  miles  long.  The  narrows  which  con- 
nect what  may  be  called,  in  truth,  two  lakes,  are  crowded  with  islands  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  leave  passages  between  them  frequently  of  only  a  few  feet  in  width. 
The  lake  itself  varies  in  breadth  from  one  to  three  miles. 

The  State  of  New  York  is  remarkable  for  the  number  and  beauty  of  its  lakes. 
One  of  its  frontiers  lies  on  the  vast  sheet  of  Ontario,  while  Champlain  stretches 


122  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

less  little  islands.  It  was  by  this  road  that  Montcalm  had  re- 
tired with  his  army,  and  the  adventurers  knew  not  but  he  had 
left  some  of  his  Indians  in  ambush,  to  protect  the  rear  of  his 
forces,  and  collect  the  stragglers.  They  therefore  approached 
the  passage  with  the  customary  silence  of  their  guarded 
habits. 

Chingachgook  laid  aside  his  paddle;  while  Uncas  and  the 
scout  urged  the  light  vessel  through  crooked  and  intricate 
channels,  where  every  foot  that  they  advanced  exposed  them 
to  the  danger  of  some  sudden  rising  on  their  progress.  The  eyes 
of  the  Sagamore  moved  warily  from  islet  to  islet  and  copse  to 
copse  as  the  canoe  proceeded;  and  when  a  clearer  sheet  of 
water  permitted,  his  keen  vision  was  bent  along  the  bald  rocks 
and  impending  forests  that  frowned  upon  the  narrow  strait. 

Heyward,  who  was  a  doubly  interested  spectator,  as  well 
from  the  beauties  of  the  place  as  from  the  apprehensions  nat- 
ural to  his  situation,  was  just  believing  that  he  had  permitted 
the  latter  to  be  excited  without  sufficient  reason,  when  the 
paddle  ceased  moving,  in  obedience  to  a  signal  from  Chingach- 
gook. 

"Hugh!"  exclaimed  Uncas,  nearly  at  the  moment  that  the 
light  tap  his  father  had  made  on  the  side  of  the  canoe  notified 
them  of  the  vicinity  of  danger. 

"What  now?"  asked  the  scout;  "the  lake  is  as  smooth  as  if 
the  winds  had  never  blown,  and  I  can  see  along  its  sheet  for 
miles;  there  is  not  so  much  as  the  black  head  of  a  loon  dotting 
the  water." 

The  Indian  gravely  raised  his  paddle,  and  pointed  in  the 
direction  in  which  his  own  steady  look  was  riveted.  Duncan's 
eyes  followed  the  motion.  A  few  rods  in  their  front  lay  another 
of  the  low  wooded  islets,  but  it  appeared  as  calm  and  peaceful 
as  if  its  solitude  had  never  been  disturbed  by  the  foot  of  man. 

"I  see  nothing,"  he  said,  "but  land  and  water;  and  a  lovely 
scene  it  is." 

"Hist!"  interrupted  the  scout.  "Aye,  Sagamore,  there  is 
always  a  reason  for  what  you  do.  'T  is  but  a  shade  and  yet  it 
is  not  natural.   You  see  the  mist,  Major,  that  is  rising  above 

nearly  a  hundred  miles  along  another.  Oneida,  Cayuga,  Canandaigua,  Seneca, 
and  George,  are  all  lakes  of  thirty  miles  in  length,  while  those  of  a  size  smaller 
are  without  number.   [Author's  note.] 


THE   CHASE  123 

the  island;  you  can't  call  it  a  fog,  for  it  is  more  like  a  streak  of 
thin  cloud"  — 

**It  is  vapor  from  the  water." 

"That  a  child  could  tell.  But  what  is  the  edging  of  blacker 
smoke  that  hangs  along  its  lower  side,  and  which  you  may 
trace  down  into  the  thicket  of  hazel?  'T  is  from  a  fire;  but  one 
that,  in  my  judgment,  has  been  suffered  to  bum  low." 

"Let  us  then  push  for  the  place,  and  relieve  our  doubts," 
said  the  impatient  Duncan;  "the  party  must  be  small  that  can 
lie  on  such  a  bit  of  land." 

"If  you  judge  of  Indian  cunning  by  the  rules  you  find  in 
books,  or  by  white  sagacity,  they  will  lead  you  astray,  if  not 
to  your  death,"  returned  Hawkeye,  examining  the  signs  of  the 
place  with  that  acuteness  which  distinguished  him.  "If  I  may 
be  permitted  to  speak  in  this  matter,  it  will  be  to  say  that  we 
have  but  two  things  to  choose  between:  the  one  is  to  return, 
and  give  up  all  thoughts  of  following  the  Hurons"  — 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Heyward,  in  a  voice  far  too  loud  for 
their  circumstances. 

"Well,  well,"  continued  Hawkeye,  making  a  hasty  sign  to 
repress  his  impatience;  "I  am  much  of  your  mind  myself, 
though  I  thought  it  becoming  my  experience  to  tell  the  whole. 
We  must  then  make  a  push,  and,  if  the  Indians  or  Frenchers 
are  in  the  narrows,  run  the  gauntlet  through  these  toppHng 
mountains.  Is  there  reason  in  my  words.  Sagamore?" 

The  Indian  made  no  other  answer  than  by  dropping  his 
paddle  into  the  water,  and  urging  forward  the  canoe.  As  he 
held  the  office  of  directing  its  course,  his  resolution  was  suffi- 
ciently indicated  by  the  movement.  The  whole  party  now 
phed  their  paddles  vigorously,  and  in  a  very  few  moments  they 
had  reached  a  point  whence  they  might  conmiand  an  entire 
view  of  the  northern  shore  of  the  island,  the  side  that  had  hith- 
erto been  concealed. 

"There  they  are,  by  all  the  truth  of  signs,"  whispered  the 
scout;  "  two  canoes  and  a  smoke.  The  knaves  have  n't  yet  got 
their  eyes  out  of  the  mist,  or  we  should  hear  the  accursed  whoop. 
Together,  friends !  we  are  leaving  them,  and  are  already  nearly 
out  of  whistle  of  a  bullet." 

The  well-known  crack  of  a  rifle,  whose  ball  came  skipping 
along  the  placid  surface  of  the  strait,  and  a  shrill  yell  from  the 


124  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

island,  interrupted  his  speech,  and  announced  that  their  pas- 
sage was  discovered.  In  another  instant  several  savages  were 
seen  rushing  into  the  canoes,  which  were  soon  dancing  over  the 
water,  in  pursuit.  These  fearful  precursors  of  a  coming  struggle 
produced  no  change  in  the  countenances  and  movements  of  his 
three  guides,  so  far  as  Duncan  could  discover,  except  that  the 
strokes  of  their  paddles  were  longer  and  more  in  unison,  and 
caused  the  little  bark  to  spring  forward  like  a  creature  possess- 
ing life  and  volition. 

"Hold  them  there.  Sagamore,"  said  Hawkeye,  looking  coolly 
backward  over  his  left  shoulder,  while  he  still  plied  his  paddle; 
"keep  them  just  there.  Them  Hurons  have  never  a  piece  in 
their  nation  that  will  execute  at  this  distance ;  but  Killdeer  has 
a  barrel  on  which  a  man  may  calculate." 

The  scout,  having  ascertained  that  the  Mohicans  were  suffi- 
cient of  themselves  to  maintain  the  requisite  distance,  delib- 
erately laid  aside  his  paddle,  and  raised  the  fatal  rifle.  Three 
several  times  he  brought  the  piece  to  his  shoulder,  and  when 
his  companions  were  expecting  its  report,  he  as  often  lowered 
it  to  request  the  Indians  would  permit  their  enemies  to  ap- 
proach a  little  nigher.  At  length  his  accurate  and  fastidious 
eye  seemed  satisfied,  and  throwing  out  his  left  arm  on  the  bar- 
rel, he  was  slowly  elevating  the  muzzle,  when  an  exclamation 
from  Uncas,  who  sat  in  the  bow,  once  more  caused  him  to  sus- 
pend the  shot. 

"What  now,  lad?"  demanded  Hawkeye;  "you  saved  a 
Huron  from  the  death-shriek  by  that  word;  have  you  reason 
for  what  you  do?" 

Uncas  pointed  towards  the  rocky  shore  a  little  in  their  front, 
whence  another  war  canoe  was  darting  directly  across  their 
course.  It  was  too  obvious  now  that  their  situation  was  immi- 
nently perilous,  to  need  the  aid  of  language  to  confirm  it.  The 
scout  laid  aside  his  rifle,  and  resumed  the  paddle,  while  Chin- 
gachgook  inclined  the  bows  of  the  canoe  a  little  towards  the 
western  shore,  in  order  to  increase  the  distance  between  them 
and  this  new  enemy.  In  the  mean  time  they  were  reminded  of 
the  presence  of  those  who  pressed  upon  their  rear,  by  wild  and 
exulting  shouts.  The  stirring  scene  awakened  even  Munro 
from  his  apathy. 

"Let  us  make  for  the  rocks  on  the  main,"  he  said,  with  the 


THE   CHASE  125 

mien  of  a  tried  soldier,  "and  give  battle  to  the  savages.  God 
forbid  that  I,  or  those  attached  to  me  and  mine,  should  ever 
trust  again  to  the  faith  of  any  servant  of  the  Louis's!" 

"He  who  wishes  to  prosper  in  Indian  warfare,"  returned  the 
scout,  "must  not  be  too  proud  to  learn  from  the  wit  of  a  native. 
Lay  her  more  along  the  land.  Sagamore;  we  are  doubling  on  the 
varlets,  and  perhaps  they  may  try  to  strike  our  trail  on  the 
long  calculation." 

Hawkeye  was  not  mistaken;  for  when  the  Hurons  foimd 
their  course  was  likely  to  throw  them  behind  their  chase,  they 
rendered  it  less  direct,  until,  by  gradually  bearing  more  and 
more  obliquely,  the  two  canoes  were,  ere  long,  gliding  on  paral- 
lel lines,  within  two  hundred  yards  of  each  other.  It  now  be- 
came entirely  a  trial  of  speed.  So  rapid  was  the  progress  of  the 
light  vessels,  that  the  lake  curled  in  their  front,  in  miniature 
waves,  and  their  motion  became  undulating  by  its  own  veloc- 
ity. It  was,  perhaps,  owing  to  this  circumstance,  in  addition 
to  the  necessity  of  keeping  every  hand  employed  at  the  paddles, 
that  the  Hurons  had  not  immediate  recourse  to  their  firearms. 
The  exertions  of  the  fugitives  were  too  severe  to  continue  long, 
and  the  pursuers  had  the  advantage  of  numbers.  Duncan 
observed,  with  uneasiness,  that  the  scout  began  to  look  anx- 
iously about  him,  as  if  searching  for  some  further  means  of 
assisting  their  flight. 

"Edge  her  a  little  more  from  the  sun.  Sagamore,"  said  the 
stubborn  woodsman;  "I  see  the  knaves  are  sparing  a  man  to 
the  rifle.  A  single  broken  bone  might  lose  us  our  scalps.  Edge 
more  from  the  sun  and  we  will  put  the  island  between  us." 

The  expedient  was  not  without  its  use.  A  long,  low  island 
lay  at  a  little  distance  before  them,  and  as  they  closed  with  it, 
the  chasing  canoe  was  compelled  to  take  a  side  opposite  to  that 
on  which  the  pursued  passed.  The  scout  and  his  companions 
did  not  neglect  this  advantage,  but  the  instant  they  were  hid 
from  observation  by  the  bushes,  they  redoubled  efforts  that 
before  had  seemed  prodigious.  The  two  canoes  came  round  the 
last  low  point  like  two  coursers  at  the  top  of  their  speed,  the 
fugitives  taking  the  lead.  This  change  had  brought  them 
nigher  to  each  other,  however,  while  it  altered  their  relative 
positions. 

"You  showed  knowledge  in  the  shaping  of  birchen  bark, 


126  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

Uncas,  when  you  chose  this  from  among  the  Huron  canoes," 
said  the  scout,  smiling,  apparently  more  in  satisfaction  at  their 
superiority  in  the  race,  than  from  that  prospect  of  final  escape 
which  now  began  to  open  a  Httle  upon  them.  "The  imps  have 
put  all  their  strength  again  at  the  paddles,  and  we  are  to  strug- 
gle for  our  scalps  with  bits  of  flattened  wood,  instead  of  clouded 
barrels  and  true  eyes.    A  long  stroke,  and  together,  friends." 

"They  are  preparing  for  a  shot,"  said  Heyward;  "and  as  we 
are  in  a  line  with  them,  it  can  scarcely  fail." 

"Get  you  then  into  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,"  returned  the 
scout;  "you  and  the  colonel;  it  will  be  so  much  taken  from  the 
size  of  the  mark." 

Heyward  smiled,  as  he  answered,  — 

"It  would  be  but  an  ill  example  for  the  highest  in  rank  to 
dodge,  while  the  warriors  were  under  fire!" 

"Lord !  Lord !  That  is  now  a  white  man's  courage ! "  exclaimed 
the  scout;  "and  like  too  many  of  his  notions,  not  to  be  main- 
tained by  reason.  Do  you  think  the  Sagamore,  or  Uncas,  or 
even  I,  who  am  a  man  without  a  cross,  would  deHberate  about 
finding  a  cover  in  the  skrimmage,  when  an  open  body  would  do 
no  good?  For  what  have  the  Frenchers  reared  up  their  Quebec, 
if  fighting  is  always  to  be  done  in  the  clearings?" 

"All  that  you  say  is  very  true,  my  friend,"  replied  Heyward; 
"still,  our  customs  must  prevent  us  from  doing  as  you  wish." 

A  volley  from  the  Hurons  interrupted  the  discourse,  and  as 
the  bullets  whistled  about  them,  Duncan  saw  the  head  of 
Uncas  turned,  looking  back  at  himself  and  Munro.  Notwith- 
standing the  nearness  of  the  enemy,  and  his  own  great  personal 
danger,  the  countenance  of  the  young  warrior  expressed  no 
other  emotion,  as  the  former  was  compelled  to  think,  than 
amazement  at  finding  men  willing  to  encounter  so  useless  an 
exposure.  Chingachgook  was  probably  better  acquainted  with 
the  notions  of  white  men,  for  he  did  not  even  cast  a  glance  aside 
from  the  riveted  look  his  eye  maintained  on  the  object  by  which 
he  governed  their  course.  A  ball  soon  struck  the  light  and 
poHshed  paddle  from  the  hands  of  the  chief,  and  drove  it 
through  the  air,  far  in  the  advance.  A  shout  arose  from  the 
Hurons,  who  seized  the  opportunity  to  fire  another  volley. 
Uncas  described  an  arc  in  the  water  with  his  own  blade,  and  as 
the  canoe  passed  swiftly  on,  Chingachgook  recovered  his  pad- 


THE   CHASE  127 

die,  and  flourishing  it  on  high,  he  gave  the  war-whoop  of  the 
Mohicans,  and  then  lent  his  strength  and  skill  again  to  the 
important  task. 

The  clamorous  sounds  of  "Le  Gros  Serpent!"  "La  Longue 
Carabine!"  "Le  Cerf  Agile!"  burst  at  once  from  the  canoes 
behind,  and  seemed  to  give  new  zeal  to  the  pursuers  =  The  scout 
seized  Killdeer  in  his  left  hand,  and  elevating  it  above  his  head, 
he  shook  it  in  triumph  at  his  enemies.  The  savages  answered 
the  insult  with  a  yell,  and  immediately  another  volley  suc- 
ceeded. The  bullets  pattered  along  the  lake,  and  one  even 
pierced  the  bark  of  their  little  vessel.  No  perceptible  emotion 
could  be  discovered  in  the  Mohicans  during  this  critical  mo- 
ment, their  rigid  features  expressing  neither  hope  nor  alarm; 
but  the  scout  again  turned  his  head,  and  laughing  in  his  own 
silent  manner,  he  said  to  Heyward,  — 

"The  knaves  love  to  hear  the  soimds  of  their  pieces,  but 
the  eye  is  not  to  be  found  among  the  Mingoes  that  can  cal- 
culate a  true  range  in  a  dancing  canoe!  You  see  the  dumb 
devils  have  taken  off  a  man  to  charge,  and  by  the  smallest 
measurement  that  can  be  allowed,  we  move  three  feet  to  their 
two!" 

Duncan,  who  was  not  altogether  as  easy  under  this  nice 
estimate  of  distances  as  his  companions,  was  glad  to  find,  how- 
ever, that  owing  to  their  superior  dexterity,  and  the  diversion 
among  their  enemies,  they  were  very  sensibly  obtaining  the 
advantage.  The  Hurons  soon  fired  again,  and  a  bullet  struck 
the  blade  of  Hawkeye's  paddle  without  injury. 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  scout,  examining  the  slight  inden- 
tation with  a  curious  eye;  "it  would  not  have  cut  the  skin  of 
an  infant,  much  less  of  men  who,  like  us,  have  been  blown 
upon  by  the  heavens  in  their  anger.  Now,  Major,  if  you  will 
try  to  use  this  piece  of  flattened  wood,  I'll  let  Klilldeer  take  a 
part  in  the  conversation." 

Heyward  seized  the  paddle,  and  applied  himself  to  the 
work  with  an  eagerness  that  supplied  the  place  of  skill,  while 
Hawkeye  was  engaged  in  inspecting  the  priming  of  his  rifle. 
The  latter  then  took  a  swift  aim,  and  fired.  The  Huron  in  the 
bows  of  the  leading  canoe  had  risen  with  a  similar  object,  and 
he  now  fell  backward,  suffering  his  gun  to  escape  from  his 
hands  into  the  water.  In  an  instant,  however,  he  recovered  his 


128  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

feet,  though  his  gestures  were  wild  and  bewildered.  At  the 
same  moment  his  companions  suspended  their  efforts,  and  the 
chasing  canoes  clustered  together,  and  became  stationary. 
Chingachgook  and  Uncas  profited  by  the  interval  to  regain 
their  wind,  though  Duncan  continued  to  work  with  the  most 
persevering  industry.  The  father  and  son  now  cast  calm  but 
inquiring  glances  at  each  other,  to  leam  if  either  had  sustained 
any  injury  by  the  fire;  for  both  well  knew  that  no  cry  or  excla- 
mation would,  in  such  a  moment  of  necessity,  have  been  per- 
mitted to  betray  the  accident.  A  few.  large  drops  of  blood  were 
trickling  down  the  shoulder  of  the  Sagamore,  who,  when  he 
perceived  that  the  eyes  of  Uncas  dwelt  too  long  on  the  sight, 
raised  some  water  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and,  washing  off 
the  stain,  was  content  to  manifest  in  this  simple  manner  the 
slightness  of  the  injury. 

*' Softly,  softly.  Major,"  said  the  scout,  who  by  this  time  had 
reloaded  his  rifle;  "we  are  a  little  too  far  already  for  a  rifle  to 
put  forth  its  beauties,  and  you  see  yonder  imps  are  holding  a 
council.  Let  them  come  up  within  striking  distance  —  my  eye 
may  well  be  trusted  in  such  a  matter  —  and  I  will  trail  the 
varlets  the  length  of  the  Horican,  guaranteeing  that  not  a  shot 
of  theirs  shall,  at  the  worst,  more  than  break  the  skin,  while 
Killdeer  shall  touch  the  life  twice  in  three  times." 

"We  forget  our  errand,"  returned  the  diligent  Duncan. 
"For  God's  sake  let  us  profit  by  this  advantage,  and  increase 
our  distance  from  the  enemy." 

"Give  me  my  children,"  said  Munro  hoarsely;  "trifle  no 
longer  with  a  father's  agony,  but  restore  me  my  babes." 

Long  and  habitual  deference  to  the  mandates  of  his  superiors 
had  taught  the  scout  the  virtue  of  obedience.  Throwing  a  last 
and  lingering  glance  at  the  distant  canoes,  he  laid  aside  his 
rifle,  and,  relieving  the  wearied  Duncan,  resumed  the  paddle, 
which  he  wielded  with  sinews  that  never  tired.  His  efforts  were 
seconded  by  those  of  the  Mohicans,  and  a  very  few  minutes 
served  to  place  such  a  sheet  of  water  between  them  and  their 
enemies  that  Heyward  once  more  breathed  freely. 

The  lake  now  began  to  expand,  and  their  route  lay  along  a 
wide  reach,  that  was  lined,  as  before,  by  high  and  ragged 
mountains.  But  the  islands  were  few,  and  easily  avoided.  The 
strokes  of  the  paddles  grew  more  measured  and  regular,  while 


THE   CHASE  129 

they  who  pUed  them  continued  their  labor,  after  the  close  and 
deadly  chase  from  which  they  had  just  relieved  themselves, 
with  as  much  coolness  as  though  their  speed  had  been  tried  in 
sport,  rather  than  under  such  pressing,  nay,  almost  desperate 
circumstances. 

Instead  of  following  the  western  shore,  whither  their  errand 
led  them,  the  wary  Mohican  inclined  his  course  more  towards 
those  hills  behind  which  Montcalm  was  known  to  have  led  his 
army  into  the  formidable  fortress  of  Ticonderoga.  As  the 
Hurons,  to  every  appearance,  had  abandoned  the  pursuit, 
there  was  no  apparent  reason  for  this  excess  of  caution.  It  was, 
however,  maintained  for  hours,  until  they  had  reached  a  bay, 
nigh  the  northern  termination  of  the  lake.  Here  the  canoe  was 
driven  upon  the  beach,  and  the  whole  party  landed.  Hawkeye 
and  Heyward  ascended  an  adjacent  bluff,  where  the  former, 
after  considering  the  expanse  of  water  beneath  him,  pointed 
out  to  the  latter  a  small  black  object,  hovering  under  a  head- 
land, at  the  distance  of  several  miles. 

"Do  you  see  it?"  demanded  the  scout.  "Now,  what  would 
you  account  that  spot,  were  you  left  alone  to  white  experience 
to  find  your  way  through  this  wilderness?" 

"But  for  its  distance  and  its  magnitude,  I  should  suppose  it 
a  bird.   Can  it  be  a  living  object?  " 

"  'T  is  a  canoe  of  good  birchen  bark,  and  paddled  by  fierce 
and  crafty  Mingoes.  Though  Providence  has  lent  to  those  who 
inhabit  the  woods  eyes  that  would  be  needless  to  men  in  the 
settlements,  where  there  are  inventions  to  assist  the  sight,  yet 
no  human  organs  can  see  all  the  dangers  which  at  this  moment 
circumvent  us.  These  varlets  pretend  to  be  bent  chiefly  on 
their  sun-down  meal,  but  the  moment  it  is  dark  they  will  be  on 
our  trail,  as  true  as  hounds  on  the  scent.  We  must  throw  them 
off,  or  our  pursuit  of  Le  Renard  Subtil  may  be  given  up.  These 
lakes  are  useful  at  times,  especially  when  the  game  takes  the 
water,"  continued  the  scout,  gazing  about  him  with  a  counte- 
nance of  concern;  "but  they  give  no  cover,  except  it  be  to  the 
fishes.  God  knows  what  the  country  would  be,  if  the  settle- 
ments should  ever  spread  far  from  the  two  rivers.  Both  hunt- 
ing and  war  would  lose  their  beauty." 

"Let  us  not  delay  a  moment,  without  some  good  and  obvi- 
ous cause." 


130  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 

"I  little  like  that  smoke,  which  you  may  see  worming  up 
along  the  rock  above  the  canoe,"  interrupted  the  abstracted 
scout.  ^*  My  life  on  it,  other  eyes  than  ours  see  it,  and  know  its 
meaning.  Well,  words  will  not  mend  the  matter,  and  it  is  time 
that  we  were  doing." 

Hawkeye  moved  away  from  the  lookout,  and  descended, 
musing  profoundly,  to  the  shore.  He  communicated  the  result 
of  his  observations  to  his  companions,  in  Delaware,  and  a  short 
and  earnest  consultation  succeeded.  When  it  terminated,  the 
three  instantly  set  about  executing  their  new  resolutions. 

The  canoe  was  lifted  from  the  water,  and  borne  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  party.  They  proceeded  into  the  wood,  making  as 
broad  and  obvious  a  trail  as  possible.  They  soon  reached  a 
water-course,  which  they  crossed,  and  continued  onward, 
until  they  came  to  an  extensive  and  naked  rock.  At  this  point, 
where  their  footsteps  might  be  expected  to  be  no  longer  visible, 
they  retraced  their  route  to  the  brook,  walking  backwards, 
with  the  utmost  care.  They  now  followed  the  bed  of  the  little 
stream  to  the  lake,  into  which  they  immediately  launched  their 
canoe  again.  A  low  point  concealed  them  from  the  headland, 
and  the  margin  of  the  lake  was  fringed  for  some  distance  with 
dense  and  overhanging  bushes.  Under  the  cover  of  these  nat- 
ural advantages,  they  toiled  their  way,  with  patient  industry, 
until  the  scout  pronounced  that  he  believed  it  would  be  safe 
once  more  to  land. 

The  halt  continued  until  evening  rendered  objects  indistinct 
and  uncertain  to  the  eye.  Then  they  resumed  their  route,  and, 
favored  by  the  darkness,  pushed  silently  and  vigorously  to- 
wards the  western  shore.  Although  the  rugged  outline  of 
mountain,  to  which  they  were  steering,  presented  no  distinc- 
tive marks  to  the  eyes  of  Duncan,  the  Mohican  entered  the 
little  haven  he  had  selected  with  the  confidence  and  accuracy 
of  an  experienced  pilot. 

The  boat  was  again  Hfted  and  borne  into  the  woods,  where  it 
was  carefully  concealed  under  a  pile  of  brush.  The  adventurers 
assumed  their  arms  and  packs,  and  the  scout  announced  to 
Munro  and  Heyward  that  he  and  the  Indians  were  at  last  in 
readiness  to  proceed. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE! 

In  speaking  of  the  Poetic  Principle,  I  have  no  design  to  be 
either  thorough  or  profound.  While  discussing  very  much  at 
random  the  essentiality  of  what  we  call  Poetry,  my  principal 
purpose  will  be  to  cite  for  consideration  some  few  of  those  minor 
English  or  American  poems  which  best  suit  my  own  taste,  or 
which,  upon  my  own  fancy,  have  left  the  most  definite  im- 
pression. By  ^' minor  poems"  I  mean,  of  course,  poems  of  little 
length.  And  here,  in  the  beginning,  permit  me  to  say  a  few 
words  in  regard  to  a  somewhat  pecuUar  principle,  which, 
whether  rightfully  or  wrongfully,  has  always  had  its  influence 
in  my  own  critical  estimate  of  the  poem.  I  hold  that  a  long 
poem  does  not  exist.  I  maintain  that  the  phrase,  ''a  long  poem," 
is  simply  a  flat  contradiction  in  terms. 

I  need  scarcely  observe  that  a  poem  deserves  its  title  only 
inasmuch  as  it  excites,  by  elevating  the  soul.  The  value  of  the 
poem  is  in  the  ratio  of  this  elevating  excitement.  But  all  excite- 
ments are,  through  a  psychal  necessity,  transient.  That  degree 
of  excitement  which  would  entitle  a  poem  to  be  so  called  at  all, 
cannot  be  sustained  throughout  a  composition  of  any  great 
length.  After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  at  the  very  utmost,  it 
flags  —  fails  —  a  revulsion  ensues  —  and  then  the  poem  is,  in 
effect,  and  in  fact,  no  longer  such. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  found  difficulty  in 
reconciling  the  critical  dictum  that  the  Paradise  Lost  is  to  be 
devoutly  admired  throughout,  with  the  absolute  impossibility 
of  maintaining  for  it,  during  perusal,  the  amount  of  enthusiasm 
which  that  critical  dictum  would  demand.  This  great  work,  in 
fact,  is  to  be  regarded  as  poetical  only  when,  losing  sight  of 
that  vital  requisite  in  all  works  of  Art,  Unity,  we  view  it  merely 
as  a  series  of  minor  poems.  If,  to  preserve  its  Unity  —  its 
totality  of  effect  or  irapression  —  we  read  it  (as  would  be 
necessary)  at  a  single  sitting,  the  result  is  but  a  constant  alter- 

^  Published  in  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,  October,  1850. 


132  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

nation  of  excitement  and  depression.  After  a  passage  of  what 
we  feel  to  be  true  poetry,  there  follows,  inevitably,  a  passage  of 
platitude  which  no  critical  pre-judgment  can  force  us  to  ad- 
mire; but  if,  upon  completing  the  work,  we  read  it  again; 
omitting  the  first  book  —  that  is  to  say,  commencing  with  the 
second  —  we  shall  be  surprised  at  now  finding  that  admirable 
which  we  before  condemned  —  that  damnable  which  we  had 
previously  so  much  admired.  It  follows  from  all  this  that  the 
ultimate,  aggregate,  or  absolute  effect  of  even  the  best  epic 
under  the  sun,  is  a  nullity  —  and  this  is  precisely  the  fact. 

In  regard  to  the  Iliad,  we  have,  if  not  positive  proof,  at  least 
very  good  reason,  for  believing  it  intended  as  a  series  of  lyrics ; 
but,  granting  the  epic  intention,  I  can  say  only  that  the  work  is 
based  in  an  imperfect  sense  of  Art.  The  modern  epic  is,  of  the 
suppositional  ancient  model,  but  an  inconsiderate  and  blind- 
fold imitation.  But  the  day  of  these  artistic  anomalies  is  over. 
If,  at  any  time,  any  very  long  poem  were  popular  in  reality  — 
which  I  doubt  —  it  is  at  least  clear  that  no  very  long  poem  will 
ever  be  popular  again. 

That  the  extent  of  a  poetical  work  is,  ceteris  paribus,  the 
measure  of  its  merit,  seems  undoubtedly,  when  we  thus  state  it, 
a  proposition  sufficiently  absurd  —  yet  we  are  indebted  for  it  to 
the  quarterly  Reviews.  Surely  there  can  be  nothing  in  mere 
size,  abstractly  considered  —  there  can  be  nothing  in  mere 
hulk,  so  far  as  a  volume  is  concerned,  which  has  so  continuously 
elicited  admiration  from  these  saturnine  pamphlets !  A  moun- 
tain, to  be  sure,  by  the  mere  sentiment  of  physical  magnitude 
which  it  conveys,  does  impress  us  with  a  sense  of  the  sublime  — 
but  no  man  is  impressed  after  this  fashion  by  the  material 
grandeur  of  even  The  Columbiad.^  Even  the  Quarterlies  have 
not  instructed  us  to  be  so  impressed  by  it.  As  yet,  they  have 
not  insisted  on  our  estimating  Lamar  tine  by  the  cubic  foot,  or 
Pollok^  by  the  pound  —  but  what  else  are  we  to  infer  from  their 
continued  prating  about  " sustained  effort "?  If,  by  ''sustained 
effort,"  any  little  gentleman  has  accomplished  an  epic,  let  us 
frankly  commend  him  for  the  effort  —  if  this  indeed  be  a  thing 
commendable  —  but  let  us  forbear  praising  the  epic  on  the 
effort's  account.   It  is  to  be  hoped  that  common  sense,  in  the 

*  An  epic  by  Joel  Barlow  (1754-1812). 

*  Robert  PoUok  (1798-182 7),  a  Scottish  poet. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE  133 

time  to  come,  will  prefer  deciding  upon  a  work  of  art  rather 
by  the  impression  it  makes,  by  the  effect  it  produces,  than  by 
the  time  it  took  to  impress  the  effect,  or  by  the  amount  of 
"sustained  effort"  which  had  been  found  necessary  in  effecting 
the  impression.  The  fact  is,  that  perseverance  is  one  thing  and 
genius  quite  another  —  nor  can  all  the  Quarterlies  in  Christen- 
dom confound  them.  By  and  by,  this  proposition,  with  many 
which  I  have  just  been  urging,  will  be  received  as  self-evident. 
In  the  mean  time,  by  being  generally  condemned  as  falsities, 
they  will  not  be  essentially  damaged  as  truths. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  a  poem  may  be  improperly 
brief.  Undue  brevity  degenerates  into  mere  epigrammatism. 
A  very  short  poem,  while  now  and  then  producing  a  brilliant 
or  vivid,  never  produces  a  profound  or  enduring  effect.  There 
must  be  the  steady  pressing  down  of  the  stamp  upon  the  wax. 
De  Beranger  has  wrought  innumerable  things,  pungent  and 
spirit-stirring,  but  in  general  they  have  been  too  imponderous 
to  stamp  themselves  deeply  into  the  pubHc  attention,  and  thus, 
as  so  many  feathers  of  fancy,  have  been  blown  aloft  only  to 
be  whistled  down  the  wind. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  effect  of  undue  brevity  in 
depressing  a  poem  —  in  keeping  it  out  of  the  popular  view  —  is 
afforded  by  the  following  exquisite  little  Serenade: 

"I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright; 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  —  who  knows  how?  — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet! 

"The  wandering  airs,  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

O,  beloved  as  thou  art! 

"0,  lift  me  from  the  grass! 
I  die,  I  famt,  I  fail! 


134  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
Oh!  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last!" 

Very  few  perhaps  are  familiar  with  these  lines  —  yet  no  less 
a  poet  than  Shelley  is  their  author.  Their  warm,  yet  delicate 
and  ethereal  imagination  will  be  appreciated  by  all  —  but  by 
none  so  thoroughly  as  by  him  who  has  himself  arisen  from 
sweet  dreams  of  one  beloved  to  bathe  in  the  aromatic  air  of  a 
southern  midsummer  night. 

One  of  the  finest  poems  by  WilHs,^  the  very  best  in  my  opin- 
ion which  he  has  ever  written,  has  no  doubt,  through  this  same 
defect  of  undue  brevity,  been  kept  back  from  its  proper  posi- 
tion, not  less  in  the  critical  than  in  the  popular  view. 

"The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

T  was  near  the  twilight-tide  — 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walk'd  she;  but,  viewlessly, 

Walk'd  spirits  at  her  side. 

"Peace  charm'd  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charm'd  the  air; 
And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her. 

And  called  her  good  as  fair  — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

"  She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true  — 
Her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold. 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  — 
But  honor'd  well  are  charms  to  sell, 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

"Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail  — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walk'd  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

*  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  (1806-1867),  an  American  poet. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE  135 

"No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
From  this  world's  peace  to  pray, 
For  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way!  — 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  Heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway ! " 

In  this  composition  we  find  it  difficult  to  recognize  the  Willis 
who  has  written  so  many  mere  "verses  of  society."  The  lines 
are  not  only  richly  ideal,  but  full  of  energy,  while  they  breathe 
an  earnestness,  an  evident  sincerity  of  sentiment,  for  which  we 
look  in  vain  throughout  all  the  other  works  of  this  author. 

While  the  epic  mania  —  while  the  idea  that,  to  merit  in 
poetry,  prolixity  is  indispensable  —  has  for  some  years  past 
been  gradually  dying  out  of  the  public  mind  by  mere  dint  of 
its  own  absurdity,  we  find  it  succeeded  by  a  heresy  too  palpably 
false  to  be  long  tolerated,  but  one  which,  in  the  brief  period  it 
has  already  endured,  may  be  said  to  have  accomplished  more 
in  the  corruption  of  our  Poetical  Literature  than  all  its  other 
enemies  combined.  I  allude  to  the  heresy  of  The  Didactic.  It 
has  been  assumed,  tacitly  and  avowedly,  directly  and  indi- 
rectly, that  the  ultimate  object  of  all  Poetry  is  Truth.  Every 
poem,  it  is  said,  should  inculcate  a  moral,  and  by  this  moral  is 
the  poetical  merit  of  the  work  to  be  adjudged.  We  Americans 
especially  have  patronized  this  happy  idea,  and  we  Bostonians 
very  especially  have  developed  it  in  full.  We  have  taken  it 
into  our  heads  that  to  write  a  poem  simply  for  the  poem's  sake, 
and  to  acknowledge  such  to  have  been  our  design,  would  be  to 
confess  ourselves  radically  wanting  in  the  true  Poetic  dignity 
and  force:  —  but  the  simple  fact  is,  that  would  we  but  permit 
ourselves  to  look  into  our  own  souls,  we  should  immediately 
there  discover  that  under  the  sun  there  neither  exists  nor  can 
exist  any  work  more  thoroughly  dignified,  more  supremely 
noble  than  this  very  poem,  this  poem  per  se,  this  poem  which 
is  a  poem  and  nothing  more,  this  poem  written  solely  for  the 
poem's  sake. 

With  as  deep  a  reverence  for  the  True  as  ever  inspired  the 
bosom  of  man,  I  would  nevertheless  limit,  in  some  measure,  its 
modes  of  inculcation.  I  would  limit  to  enforce  them.  I  would 
not  enfeeble  them  by  dissipation.  The  demands  of  Truth  are 
severe.  She  has  no  sjrmpathy  with  the  myrtles.  All  that  which 


136  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

is  so  indispensable  in  Song  is  precisely  all  that  with  which  she 
has  nothing  whatever  to  do.  It  is  but  making  her  a  flaunting 
paradox  to  wreathe  her  in  gems  and  flowers.  In  enforcing  a 
truth,  we  need  severity  rather  than  efiiorescence  of  language. 
We  must  be  simple,  precise,  terse.  We  must  be  cool,  calm,  un- 
impassioned.  In  a  word,  we  must  be  in  that  mood  which,  as 
nearly  as  possible,  is  the  exact  converse  of  the  poetical.  He 
must  be  blind  indeed  who  does  not  perceive  the  radical  and 
chasmal  differences  between  the  truthful  and  the  poetical 
modes  of  inculcation.  He  must  be  theory-mad  beyond  redemp- 
tion who,  in  spite  of  these  differences,  shall  still  persist  in 
attempting  to  reconcile  the  obstinate  oils  and  waters  of  Poetry 
and  Truth. 

Dividing  the  world  of  mind  into  its  three  most  immediately 
obvious  distinctions,  we  have  the  Pure  Intellect,  Taste,  and 
the  Moral  Sense.  I  place  Taste  in  the  middle  because  it  is  just 
this  position  which  it  occupies  in  the  mind.  It  holds  intimate 
relations  with  either  extreme,  but  from  the  Moral  Sense  is 
separated  by  so  faint  a  difference  that  Aristotle  has  not  hesi- 
tated to  place  some  of  its  operations  among  the  virtues  them- 
selves. Nevertheless,  we  find  the  offices  of  the  trio  marked  with 
a  sufficient  distinction.  Just  as  the  Intellect  concerns  itself 
with  Truth,  so  Taste  informs  us  of  the  Beautiful,  while  the 
Moral  Sense  is  regardful  of  Duty.  Of  this  latter,  while  Con- 
science teaches  the  obHgation,  and  Reason  the  expediency, 
Taste  contents  herself  with  displaying  the  charms,  waging  war 
upon  Vice  solely  on  the  ground  of  her  deformity,  her  dispro- 
portion, her  animosity  to  the  fitting,  to  the  appropriate,  to  the 
harmonious,  in  a  word,  to  Beauty. 

An  immortal  instinct  deep  within  the  spirit  of  man  is  thus 
plainly  a  sense  of  the  Beautiful.  This  it  is  which  administers 
to  his  delight  in  the  manifold  forms,  and  sounds,  and  odors 
and  sentiments,  amid  which  he  exists.  And  just  as  the  Hly  is 
repeated  in  the  lake,  or  the  eyes  of  Amaryllis  in  the  mirror,  so 
is  the  mere  oral  or  written  repetition  of  these  forms,  and  sounds 
and  colors,  and  odors,  and  sentiments^  a  dupHcate  source  of 
delight.  But  this  mere  repetition  is  not  poetry.  He  who  shall 
simply  sing,  with  however  glowing  enthusiasm,  or  with  how- 
ever vivid  a  truth  of  description,  of  the  sights,  and  sounds,  and 
odors,  and  colors,  and  sentiments,  which  greet  him  in  common 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE  137 

with  all  mankind  —  he,  I  say,  has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine 
title.  There  is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he  has 
been  xmable  to  attain.  We  have  still  a  thirst  unquenchable, 
to  allay  which  he  has  not  shown  us  the  crystal  springs.  This 
thirst  belongs  to  the  immortaUty  of  Man.  It  is  at  once  a  conse- 
quence and  an  indication  of  his  perennial  existence.  It  is  the 
desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star.  It  is  no  mere  appreciation  of 
the  Beauty  before  us,  but  a  wild  effort  to  reach  the  Beauty 
above.  Inspired  by  an  ecstatic  prescience  of  the  glories  be- 
yond the  grave,  we  struggle  by  multiform  combinations  among 
the  things  and  thoughts  of  Time  to  attain  a  portion  of  that 
Loveliness  whose  very  elements  perhaps  appertain  to  eternity 
alone.  And  thus  when  by  Poetry  —  or  when  by  Music,  the 
most  entrancing  of  the  Poetic  moods  —  we  find  ourselves 
melted  into  tears,  we  weep  then  —  not  as  the  Abbate  Gravina^ 
supposes  —  through  excess  of  pleasure,  but  through  a  certain, 
petulant,  impatient  sorrow  at  our  inability  to  grasp  noWj 
wholly,  here  on  earth,  at  once  and  forever,  those  divine  and 
rapturous  joys,  of  which  through  the  poem  or  through  the  music, 
we  attain  to  but  brief  and  indeterminate  glimpses. 

The  struggle  to  apprehend  the  supernal  LoveHness  —  this 
struggle,  on  the  part  of  souls  fittingly  constituted  —  has  given 
to  the  world  all  that  which  it  (the  world)  has  ever  been  enabled 
at  once  to  understand  and  to  feel  as  poetic. 

The  Poetic  Sentiment,  of  course,  may  develop  itself  in  vari- 
ous'modes  —  in  Painting,  in  Sculpture,  in  Architecture,  in  the 
Dance  —  very  especially  in  Music  —  and  very  pecuHarly,  and 
with  a  wide  field,  in  the  composition  of  the  Landscape  Garden. 
Our  present  theme,  however,  has  regard  only  to  its  manifesta- 
tion in  words.  And  here  let  me  speak  briefly  on  the  topic  of 
rhythm.  Contenting  myself  with  the  certainty  that  Music,  in 
its  various  modes  of  metre,  rhythm,  and  rhyme,  is  of  so  vast  a 
moment  in  Poetry  as  never  to  be  wisely  rejected  —  is  so  vitally 
important  an  adjunct  —  that  he  is  simply  silly  who  declines 
its  assistance,  I  will  not  now  pause  to  maintain  its  absolute 
essentiality.  It  is  in  Music  perhaps  that  the  soul  most  nearly 
attains  the  great  end  for  which,  when  inspired  by  the  Poetic 
Sentiment,  it  struggles  —  the  creation  of  supernal  Beauty.  It 
may  be,  indeed,  that  here  this  sublime  end  is,  now  and  then, 
^  Domenico  da  Gravina  (d.  ca.  1350),  Neapolitan  historian. 


138  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

attained  in  fact.  We  are  often  made  to  feel,  with  a  shivering 
delight,  that  from  an  earthly  harp  are  stricken  notes  which 
cannot  have  been  unfamiliar  to  the  angels.  And  thus  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  in  the  union  of  Poetry  with  Music  in  its 
popular  sense,  we  shall  find  the  widest  field  for  the  Poetic 
development.  The  old  Bards  and  Minnesingers  had  advan- 
tages which  we  do  not  possess  —  and  Thomas  Moore,  singing 
his  own  songs,  was,  in  the  most  legitimate  manner,  perfecting 
them  as  poems. 

To  recapitulate,  then:  —  I  would  define,  in  brief,  the  Poetry 
of  words  as  The  Rhythmical  Creation  of  Beauty.  Its  sole  arbiter 
is  Taste.  With  the  Intellect  or  with  the  Conscience,  it  has  only 
collateral  relations.  Unless  incidentally,  it  has  no  concern 
whatever  either  with  Duty  or  with  Truth. 

A  few  words,  however,  in  explanation.  That  pleasure  which 
is  at  once  the  most  pure,  the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  in- 
tense, is  derived,  I  maintain,  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
Beautiful.  In  the  contemplation  of  Beauty  we  alone  find  it 
possible  to  attain  that  pleasurable  elevation,  or  excitement  of 
the  soul,  which  we  recognize  as  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  and  which 
is  so  easily  distinguished  from  Truth,  which  is  the  satisfaction 
of  the  Reason,  or  from  Passion,  which  is  the  excitement  of  the 
heart.  I  make  Beauty,  therefore,  —  using  the  word  as  inclu- 
sive of  the  sublime,  — I  make  Beauty  the  province  of  the 
poem,  simply  because  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art  that  effects 
should  be  made  to  spring  as  directly  as  possible  from  their 
causes :  —  no  one  as  yet  having  been  weak  enough  to  deny  that 
the  peculiar  elevation  in  question  is  at  least  most  readily  attain- 
able in  the  poem.  It  by  no  means  follows,  however,  that  the 
incitements  of  Passion,  or  the  precepts  of  Duty,  or  even  the 
lessons  of  Truth,  may  not  be  introduced  into  a  poem,  and  with 
advantage;  for  they  may  subserve  incidentally,  in  various 
ways,  the  general  purposes  of  the  work:  —  but  the  true  artist 
will  always  contrive  to  tone  them  down  in  proper  subjection  to 
that  Beauty  which  is  the  atmosphere  and  the  real  essence  of 
the  poem. 

I  cannot  better  introduce  the  few  poems  which  I  shall  pre- 
sent for  your  consideration,  than  by  the  citation  of  the  Proem 
to  Mr.  Longfellow's  ''  Waif " : 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE  139 

"The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

"I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 
And  a  feehng  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me^ 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist: 

"A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 
That  is  not  akin  to  pain. 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

"  Come,  read  to  me  some  poem. 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 
That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

"Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

"For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

"Read  from  some  himibler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers,  from  the  clouds  of  summer,   • 
Or  tears  from  the  eyehds  start; 

"Who  through  long  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease. 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

"Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care. 

And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

"Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice. 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 


140  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away." 

With  no  great  range  of  imagination,  these  lines  have  been 
justly  admired  for  their  delicacy  of  expression.  Some  of  the 
images  are  very  effective.  Nothing  can  be  better  than 

"The  bards  sublihie 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Down^  the  corridors  of  Time." 

The  idea  of  the  last  quatrain  is  also  very  effective.  The  poem 
on  the  whole,  however,  is  chiefly  to  be  admired  for  the  graceful 
insouciance  of  its  metre,  so  well  in  accordance  with  the  charac- 
ter of  the  sentiments,  and  especially  for  the  ease  of  the  general 
manner.  This  "ease"  or  naturalness,  in  a  literary  style,  it  has 
long  been  the  fashion  to  regard  as  ease  in  appearance  alone  — 
as  a  point  of  really  difficult  attainment.  But  not  so:  a  natural 
manner  is  difficult  only  to  him  who  should  never  meddle  with 
it  —  to  the  unnatural.  It  is  but  the  result  of  writing  with  the 
understanding,  or  with  the  instinct,  that  the  tone,  in  composi- 
tion, should  always  be  that  which  the  mass  of  mankind  would 
adopt  —  and  must  perpetually  vary,  of  course,  with  the  occa- 
sion. The  author  who,  after  the  fashion  of  the  North  American 
Review,  should  be  upon  all  occasions  merely  ''quiet,"  must 
necessarily  upon  many  occasions,  be  simply  silly,  or  stupid; 
and  has  no  more  right  to  be  considered  "easy"  or  "natural" 
than  a  Cockney  exquisite,  or  than  the  sleeping  Beauty  in  the 
wax-works. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Bryant,  none  has  so  much  im- 
pressed me  as  the  one  which  he  entitles  "June."  I  quote  only 
a  portion  of  it: 

"There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale,  close  beside  my  cell; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming  bird. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE  141 

"And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
.    Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 
With  fairy  laughter  blent? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

"I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see ^ 

The  season's  glorious  show. 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me. 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep. 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

"These  to  their  soften'd  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been. 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene; 
Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills. 

Is  —  that  his  grave  is  green; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice." 

The  rhythmical  flow  here  is  even  voluptuous  —  nothing 
could  be  more  melodious.  The  poem  has  always  affected  me  in 
a  remarkable  manner.  The  intense  melancholy  which  seems  to 
well  up,  perforce,  to  the  surface  of  all  the  poet's  cheerful  say- 
ings about  his  grave,  we  find  thrilling  us  to  the  soul  —  while 
there  is  the  truest  poetic  elevation  in  the  thrill.  The  impression 
left  is  one  of  a  pleasurable  sadness.  And  if,  in  the  remaining 
compositions  which  I  shall  introduce  to  you,  there  be  more  or 
less  of  a  similar  tone  always  apparent,  let  me  remind  you  that 
(how  or  why  we  know  not)  this  certain  taint  of  sadness  is  in- 
separably connected  with  all  the  higher  manifestations  of  true 
Beauty.  It  is,  nevertheless, 

"A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 
That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

1  Sic. 


142  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain." 

The  taint  of  which  I  speak  is  clearly  perceptible  even  in  a 
poem  so  full  of  brilliancy  and  spirit  as  the  ''Health"  of 
Edward  Coate  Pinkney:^ 

"I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

"  Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds. 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  hps  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burden'd  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

"  Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her. 

The  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy. 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  — 

The  idol  of  past  years! 

"  Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain. 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's  but  hers. 

"  I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon  — 

^  (1802-1828),  a  Southern  poet. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE  143 

Her  health!  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  Hfe  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name." 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Pinkney  to  have  been  bom  too 
far  south.  Had  he  been  a  New  Englander,  it  is  probable  that 
he  would  have  been  ranked  as  the  first  of  American  lyrists,  by 
that  magnanimous  cabal  which  has  so  long  controlled  the 
destinies  of  American  Letters,  in  conducting  the  thing  called 
the  North  American  Review.  The  poem  just  cited  is  especially 
beautiful;  but  the  poetic  elevation  which  it  induces,  we  must 
refer  chiefly  to  our  sympathy  in  the  poet's  enthusiasm.  We  par- 
don his  hyperboles  for  the  evident  earnestness  with  which  they 
are  uttered. 

It  was  by  no  means  my  design,  however,  to  expatiate  upon 
the  merits  of  what  I  should  read  you.  These  will  necessarily 
speak  for  themselves.  BoccaHni,  in  his  Advertisements  from 
Parnassus,  tells  us  that  Zoilus  once  presented  Apollo  a  very 
caustic  criticism  upon  a  very  admirable  book:  — whereupon 
the  god  asked  him  for  the  beauties  of  the  work.  He  repHed  that 
he  only  busied  himself  about  the  errors.  On  hearing  this, 
Apollo,  handing  him  a  sack  of  un winnowed  wheat,  bade  him 
pick  out  all  the  chaf  for  his  reward. 

Now  this  fable  answers  very  well  as  a  hit  at  the  critics  —  but 
I  am  by  no  means  sure  that  the  god  was  in  the  right.  I  am  by 
no  means  certain  that  the  true  limits  of  the  critical  duty  are 
not  grossly  misunderstood.  Excellence,  in  a  poem  especially, 
may  be  considered  in  the  light  of  an  axiom,  which  need  only  be 
properly  put,  to  become  self-evident.  It  is  not  excellence  if  it 
require  to  be  demonstrated  as  such :  —  and  thus  to  point  out 
too  particularly  the  merits  of  a  work  of  Art,  is  to  admit  that 
they  are  not  merits  altogether. 

Among  the  *' Melodies"  of  Thomas  Moore  is  one  whose  dis- 
tinguished character  as  a  poem  proper  seems  to  have  been 
singularly  left  out  of  view.  I  allude  to  his  lines  beginning  — 
"Come,  rest  in  this  bosom."  The  intense  energy  of  their  ex- 
pression is  not  surpassed  by  anything  in  Byron.  There  are  two 
of  the  lines  in  which  a  sentiment  is  conveyed  that  embodies 
the  all  in  all  of  the  divine  passion  of  Love — a  sentiment  which, 
perhaps,  has  found  its  echo  in  more,  and  in  more  passionate, 


144  EDGAR  ALLAN'  POE 

human  hearts  than  any  other  single  sentiment  ever  embodied 
in  words: 

"  Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here; 
Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

"Oh!  what  was  love  made  for,  if 't  is  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  shame? 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt 's  in  that  heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art. 

"Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss. 
And  thy  Angel  I  '11  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this,  — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue. 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,  —  or  perish  there  too!" 

It  has  been  the  fashion  of  late  days  to  deny  Moore  imagina- 
tion, while  granting  him  fancy  —  a  distinction  originating  with 
Coleridge  —  than  whom  no  man  more  fully  comprehended  the 
great  powers  of  Moore.  The  fact  is,  that  the  fancy  of  this  poet 
so  far  predominates  over  all  his  other  faculties,  and  over  the 
fancy  of  all  other  men,  as  to  have  induced,  very  naturally, 
the  idea  that  he  is  fanciful  only.  But  never  was  there  a  greater 
mistake.  Never  was  a  grosser  wrong  done  the  fame  of  a  true 
poet.  In  the  compass  of  the  English  language  I  can  call  to 
mind  no  poem  more  profoundly  —  more  weirdly  imaginative, 
in  the  best  sense,  than  the  lines  commencing  —  "I  would  I 
were  by  that  dim  lake''  —  which  are  the  composition  of 
Thomas  Moore.  I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  remember  them. 
One  of  the  noblest  —  and,  speaking  of  fancy,  one  of  the  most 
singularly  fanciful  of  modern  poets,  was  Thomas  Hood.  His 
''Fair  Ines"  had  always  for  me  an  inexpressible  charm: 

"O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines? 

She 's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest: 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

"0  turn  again,  far  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night,         • 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE  145 

For  fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write! 

"Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier. 
Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near! 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home. 

Or  no  true  lovers  here. 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear? 

"I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  wav'd  before; 
And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore; 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream. 

If  it  had  been  no  more! 

"Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song. 
With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps. 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng; 
But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth. 

But  only  Music's  wrong. 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you  've  loved  so  long. 

'Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck. 

Nor  danced  so  light  before,  — 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea. 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore! 
The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more!" 

"The  Haunted  House,"  by  the  same  author,  is  one  of  the 
truest  poems  ever  written,  one  of  the  truest,  one  of  the  most 
unexceptionable,  one  of  the  most  thoroughly  artistic,  both  in  its 
theme  and  in  its  execution.  It  is,  moreover,  powerfully  ideal  — 


146  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

imaginative.  I  regret  that  its  length  renders  it  unsuitable  for 
the  purposes  of  this  Lecture.  In  place  of  it,  permit  me  to  offer 
the  universally  appreciated  "Bridge  of  Sighs '^ 

"One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care;  — 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly. 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

"Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

"Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully. 
Gently  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her. 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

"Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutifiil; 
Past  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

"Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers. 
One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 
Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home? 

"Who  was  her  father? 
Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 
Had  she  a  brother? 


THE  POETIC   PRINCIPLE  147 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

**Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun! 
Oh!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full 
Home  she  had  none. 

"Sisteriy,  brotheriy, 
Fatheriy,  motheriy 
Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence. 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

"Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river. 
With  many  a  Hght 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement. 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

"The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  huri'd  — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world! 

"In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it,  —  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can! 

"Take  her  up  tenderly 
Lift  her  with  care 


148  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 
Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  —  kindly,  — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly! 

"Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 
Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity. 
Into  her  rest,  — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly. 
As  if  praying  dumbly. 
Over  her  breast! 
Owning  her  weakness. 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness. 
Her  sins  to  her  Savior!" 

The  vigor  of  this  poem  is  no  less  remarkable  than  its  pathos. 
The  versification,  although  carrying  the  fanciful  to  the  very- 
verge  of  the  fantastic,  is  nevertheless  admirably  adapted  to 
the  wild  insanity  which  is  the  thesis  of  the  poem. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Lord  Byron  is  one  which  has 
never  received  from  the  critics  the  praise  which  it  undoubtedly 
deserves: 

"Though  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over. 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined. 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted. 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me. 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

"Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling. 
The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine. 


THE  POETIC   PRINCIPLE  149 

I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

"Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shivered, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deUvered 

To  pain  —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me: 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn  — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me  — 

'T  is  of  ihee  that  I  think  —  not  of  them. 

"Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me. 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake. 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  shake,  — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me. 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

"Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one  — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun: 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me. 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that  whatever  it  lost  me. 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

"From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perished. 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall. 
It  hath  taught  me  that  which  I  most  cherished, 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all: 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing. 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree. 
And  a  bird  in  the  soUtude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee." 

Although  the  rhythm  here  is  one  of  the  most  difficult,  the 
versification  could  scarcely  be  improved.  No  nobler  theme  ever 
engaged  the  pen  of  poet.  It  is  the  soul-elevating  idea  that  no 
man  can  consider  himself  entitled  to  complain  of  Fate  while,  in 
his  adversity,  he  still  retains  the  unwavering  love  of  woman. 


ISO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

From  Alfred  Tennyson  —  although  in  perfect  sincerity  I 
regard  him  as  the  noblest  poet  that  ever  lived  —  I  have  left 
myself  time  to  cite  only  a  very  brief  specimen.  I  call  him,  and 
think  him  the  noblest  of  poets  —  not  because  the  impressions 
he  produces  are  at  all  times  the  most  profound  —  not  because 
the  poetical  excitement  which  he  induces  is  at  all  times  the 
most  intense  —  but  because  it  is  at  all  times  the  most  ethereal 
—  in  other  words,  the  most  elevating  and  most  pure.  No  poet 
is  so  little  of  the  earth,  earthy.  What  I  am  about  to  read  is  from 
his  last  long  poem,  The  Princess: 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn  fields. 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Fresh  as  the  first  beam  ghttering  on  a  sail 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  hps  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

Thus,  although  in  a  very  cursory  and  imperfect  manner,  I 
have  endeavored  to  convey  to  you  my  conception  of  the  Poetic 
Principle.  It  has  been  my  purpose  to  suggest  that,  while  this 
Principle  itself  is  strictly  and  simply  the  Human  Aspiration 
for  Supernal  Beauty,  the  manifestation  of  the  Principle  is 
always  found  in  an  elevating  excitement  of  the  Soul,  quite  inde- 
pendent of  that  passion  which  is  the  intoxication  of  the  Heart, 
or  of  that  truth  which  is  the  satisfaction  of  the  Reason.  For  in 
regard  to  Passion,  alas!  its  tendency  is  to  degrade  rather  than 


THE   POETIC  PRINCIPLE  151 

to  elevate  the  Soul.  Love^  on  the  contrary  —  Love  —  the  true, 
the  divine  Eros  —  the  Uranian  as  distinguished  from  the 
Dionaean  Venus  ^  —  is  unquestionably  the  purest  and  truest  of 
all  poetical  themes.  And  in  regard  to  Truth  —  if,  to  be  sure, 
through  the  attainment  of  a  truth  we  are  led  to  perceive  a  har- 
mony where  none  was  apparent  before,  we  experience  at  once 
the  true  poetical  effect  —  but  this  effect  is  referable  to  the  har- 
mony alone,  and  not  in  the  least  degree  to  the  truth  which 
merely  served  to  render  the  harmony  manifest. 

We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately  a  distinct  con- 
ception of  what  the  true  Poetry  is,  by  mere  reference  to  a  few 
of  the  simple  elements  which  induce  in  the  Poet  himself  the 
true  poetical  effect.  He  recognizes  the  ambrosia  which  nour- 
ishes his  soul  in  the  bright  orbs  that  shine  in  Heaven  —  in  the 
volutes  of  the  flower  —  in  the  clustering  of  low  shrubberies  — 
in  the  waving  of  the  grain-fields — in  the  slanting  of  tall  Eastern 
trees  —  in  the  blue  distance  of  mountains  —  in  the  grouping 
of  clouds  —  in  the  twinkling  of  half -hidden  brooks  —  in  the 
gleaming  of  silver  rivers  —  in  the  repose  of  sequestered  lakes 
—  in  the  star-mirroring  depths  of  lonely  wells.  He  perceives 
it  in  the  songs  of  birds  —  in  the  harp  of  ^olus — in  the  sighing 
of  the  night-wind  —  in  the  repining  voice  of  the  forest  —  in 
the  surf  that  complains  to  the  shore  —  in  the  fresh  breath  of 
the  woods  —  in  the  scent  of  the  violet  —  in  the  voluptuous  per- 
fume of  the  hyacinth  —  in  the  suggestive  odor  that  comes  to 
him  at  eventide  from  far-distant,  undiscovered  islands,  over 
dim  oceans,  illimitable  and  unexplored.  He  owns  it  in  all  noble 
thoughts  —  in  all  unworldly  motives  —  in  all  holy  impulses  — 
in  all  chivalrous,  generous,  and  self-sacrificing  deeds.  He  feels 
it  in  the  beauty  of  woman  —  in  the  grace  of  her  step  —  in  the 
lustre  of  her  eye  —  in  the  melody  of  her  voice  —  in  her  soft 
laughter  —  in  her  sigh  —  in  the  harmony  of  the  rustling  of  her 
robes.  He  deeply  feels  it  in  her  winning  endearments  —  in  her 
burning  enthusiasms  —  in  her  gentle  charities  —  in  her  meek 
and  devotional  endurances  —  but  above  all  —  ah,  far  above 
all  —  he  kneels  to  it,  he  worships  it  in  the  faith,  in  the  purity, 
in  the  strength,  in  the  altogether  divine  majesty  —  of  her  love. 

^  According  to  one  tradition,  Venus  was  the  daughter  of  Jupiter  and  Dione; 
according  to  the  prevalent  tradition,  she  sprang  from  the  foam  of  the  sea,  near 
Cyprus. 


152  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Let  me  conclude  by  the  recitation  of  yet  another  brief  poem 
—  one  very  different  in  character  from  any  that  I  have  before 
quoted.  It  is  by  Motherwell/  and  is  called  ^'The  Song  of  the 
Cavalier."  With  our  modern  and  altogether  rational  ideas  of 
the  absurdity  and  impiety  of  warfare,  we  are  not  precisely  in 
that  frame  of  mind  best  adapted  to  sympathize  with  the  senti- 
ments, and  thus  to  appreciate  the  real  excellence  of  the  poem. 
To  do  this  fully  we  must  identify  ourselves  in  fancy  with  the 
soul  of  the  old  cavalier. 

"Then  mounte!  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine: 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand,  — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye, 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die!" 


HAWTHORNE^S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES  ^ 

We  said  a  few  hurried  words  about  Mr.  Hawthorne  in  our 
last  number,  with  the  design  of  speaking  more  fully  in  the 
present.  We  are  still,  however,  pressed  for  room,  and  must 
necessarily  discuss  his  volumes  more  briefly  and  more  at  ran- 
dom than  their  high  merits  deserve. 

The  book  professes  to  be  a  collection  of  tales,  yet  is,  in  two 
respects,  misnamed.  These  pieces  are  now  in  their  third  repub- 
lication, and,  of  course,  are  thrice- told.  Moreover,  they  are 
by  no  means  all  tales,  either  in  the  ordinary  or  in  the  legitimate 
understanding  of  the  term.  Many  of  them  are  pure  essays;  for 
example,  *' Sights  from  a  Steeple,"  "Sunday  at  Home,"  ''Little 
Annie's  Ramble,"  "A  Rill  from  the  Town  Pump,"  "The  Toll- 
Gatherer's  Day,"  "The  Haunted  Mind,"  "The  Sister  Years," 
"Snow-Flakes,"  "Night  Sketches,"  and  "Foot-Prints  on  the 
Sea-Shore."  We  mention  these  matters  chiefly  on  account  of 

*  William  Motherwell  (1797-1835),  a  Scottish  poet. 

*  Published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  May,  1842. 


HAWTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES         153 

their  discrepancy  with  that  marked  precision  and  finish  by 
which  the  body  of  the  work  is  distinguished. 

Of  the  essays  just  named,  we  must  be  content  to  speak  in 
brief.  They  are  each  and  all  beautiful,  without  being  charac- 
terized by  the  polish  and  adaptation  so  visible  in  the  ^tales 
proper.  A  painter  would  at  once  note  their  leading  or  predom- 
inant feature,  and  style  it  repose.  There  is  no  attempt  at  effect. 
All  is  quiet,  thoughtful,  subdued.  Yet  this  repose  may  exist 
simultaneously  with  high  originality  of  thought;  and  Mr. 
Hawthorne  has  demonstrated  the  fact.  At  every  turn  we  meet 
with  novel  combinations ;  yet  these  combinations  never  surpass 
the  limits  of  the  quiet.  We  are  soothed  as  we  read;  and  withal 
is  a  calm  astonishment  that  ideas  so  apparently  obvious  have 
never  occurred  or  been  presented  to  us  before.  Herein  our 
author  differs  materially  from  Lamb  or  Hunt  or  Hazlitt  — 
who,  with  vivid  originaHty  of  manner  and  expression,  have  less 
of  the  true  novelty  of  thought  than  is  generally  supposed,  and 
whose  originality,  at  best,  has  an  uneasy  and  meretricious 
quaintness,  replete  with  startling  effects  unfounded  in  nature, 
and  inducing  trains  of  reflection  which  lead  to  no  satisfactory 
result.  The  Essays  of  Hawthorne  have  much  of  the  character 
of  Irving,  with  more  of  originality,  and  less  of  finish;  while, 
compared  with  the  Spectator,  they  have  a  vast  superiority  at 
all  points.  The  Spectator,  Mr.  Irving,  and  Mr.  Hawthorne 
have  in  common  that  tranquil  and  subdued  manner  which  we 
have  chosen  to  denominate  repose;  but,  in  the  case  of  the  two 
former,  this  repose  is  attained  rather  by  the  absence  of  novel 
combination,  or  of  originality,  than  otherwise,  and  consists 
chiefly  in  the  calm,  quiet,  unostentatious  expression  of  com- 
monplace thoughts,  in  an  imambitious,  unadulterated  Saxon. 
In  them,  by  strong  effort,  we  are  made  to  conceive  the  absence 
of  all.  In  the  essays  before  us  the  absence  of  effort  is  too  obvi- 
ous to  be  mistaken,  and  a  strong  undercurrent  of  suggestion 
runs  continuously  beneath  the  upper  stream  of  the  tranquil 
thesis.  In  short,  these  effusions  of  Mr.  Hawthorne  are  the  prod- 
uct of  a  truly  imaginative  intellect,  restrained,  and  in  some 
measure  repressed,  by  fastidiousness  of  taste,  by  constitutional 
melancholy,  and  by  indolence. 

But  it  is  of  his  tales  that  we  desire  principally  to  speak.  The 
tale  proper,  in  our  opinion,  affords  unquestionably  the  fairest 


154  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

field  for  the  exercise  of  the  loftiest  talent,  which  can  be 
afforded  by  the  wide  domains  of  mere  prose.  Were  we  bidden 
to  say  how  the  highest  genius  could  be  most  advantageously 
employed  for  the  best  display  of  its  own  powers,  we  should 
answer,  without  hesitation  —  in  the  composition  of  a  rhymed 
poem,  not  to  exceed  in  length  what  might  be  perused  in  an 
hour.  Within  this  limit  alone  can  the  highest  order  of  true 
poetry  exist.  We  need  only  here  say,  upon  this  topic,  that,  in 
almost  all  classes  of  composition,  the  unity  of  effect  or  impres- 
sion is  a  point  of  the  greatest  importance.  It  is  clear,  moreover, 
that  this  unity  cannot  be  thoroughly  preserved  in  productions 
whose  perusal  cannot  be  completed  at  one  sitting.  We  may 
continue  the  reading  of  a  prose  composition,  from  the  very 
nature  of  prose  itself,  much  longer  than  we  can  persevere,  to 
any  good  purpose,  in  the  perusal  of  a  poem.  This  latter,  if 
truly -.fulfilling  the  demands  of  the  poetic  sentiment,  induces 
an  exaltation  of  the  soul  which  cannot  be  long  sustained.  All 
high  excitements  are  necessarily  transient.  Thus  a  long  poem 
is  a  paradox.  And,  without  unity  of  impression,  the  deepest 
effects  cannot  be  brought  about.  Epics  were  the  offspring  of 
an  imperfect  sense  of  Art,  and  their  reign  is  no  more.  A  poem 
too  brief  may  produce  a  vivid,  but  never  an  intense  or  enduring 
impression.  Without  a  certain  continuity  of  effort  —  without 
a  certain  duration  or  repetition  of  purpose  —  the  soul  is  never 
deeply  moved.  There  must  be  the  dropping  of  the  water  upon 
the  rock.  De  Beranger  has  wrought  brilliant  things  —  pungent 
and  spirit-stirring  —  but,  like  all  immassive  bodies,  they  lack 
momentum,  and  thus  fail  to  satisfy  the  Poetic  Sentiment.  They 
sparkle  and  excite,  but,  from  want  of  continuity,  fail  deeply  to 
impress.  Extreme  brevity  will  degenerate  into  epigrammatism ; 
but  the  sin  of  extreme  length  is  even  more  unpardonable.  In 
medio  tutissimus  ibis} 

Were  we  called  upon,  however,  to  designate  that  class  of 
composition  which,  next  to  such  a  poem  as  we  have  suggested 
should  best  fulfil  the  demands  of  high  genius  —  should  offer  it 
the  most  advantageous  field  of  exertion  —  we  should  unhesi- 
tatingly speak  of  the  prose  tale,  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  here 
exemplified  it.  We  allude  to  the  short  prose  narrative,  requir- 
ing from  a  half -hour  to  one  or  two  hours  in  its  perusal.  The 
*  "You  will  go  most  safely  in  the  middle."  (Ovid.) 


HAWTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES         155 

ordinary  novel  is  objectionable,  from  its  length,  for  reasons 
already  stated  in  substance.  As  it  cannot  be  read  at  one  sitting, 
it  deprives  itself,  of  course,  of  the  immense  force  derivable  from 
totality.  Worldly  interests  intervening  during  the  pauses  of 
perusal,  modify,  annul,  or  counteract,  in  a  greater  or  less 
degree,  the  impressions  of  the  book.  But  simple  cessation  in 
reading  would,  of  itself,  be  sufficient  to  destroy  the  true  unity. 
In  the  brief  tale,  however,  the  author  is  enabled  to  carry  out 
the  fulness  of  his  intention,  be  it  what  it  may."  During  the  hour 
of  perusal  the  soul  of  the  reader  is  at  the  writer's  control.  There 
are  no  external  or  extrinsic  influences  —  resulting  from  weari- 
ness or  interruption. 

A  skilful  Hterary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If  wise,  he 
has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommodate  his  incidents; 
but  having  conceived,  with  deliberate  care,  a  certain  unique  or 
single  efect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents  such  incidents 
—  he  then  combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  estab- 
lishing this  preconceived  ejffect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend 
not  to  the  outbringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has  failed  in  his 
first  step.  In  the  whole  composition  there  should  be  no  word 
written,  of  which  the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the 
one  pre-established  design.  And  by  such  means,  with  such  care 
and  skill,  a  picture  is  at  length  painted  which  leaves  in  the 
mind  of  him  who  contemplates  it  with  a  kindred  art,  a  sense  of 
the  fullest  satisfaction.  The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  presented 
unblemished,  because  undisturbed;  and  this  is  an  end  unattain- 
able by  the  novel.  Undue  brevity  is  just  as  exceptionable  here 
as  in  the  poem;  but  undue  length  is  yet  more  to  be  avoided. 

We  have  said  that  the  tale  has  a  point  of  superiority  even 
over  the  poem.  In  fact,  while  the  rhythm  of  this  latter  is  an 
essential  aid  in  the  development  of  the  poem's  highest  idea  — 
the  idea  of  the  Beautiful —  the  artificialities  of  this  rhythm  are 
an  inseparable  bar  to  the  development  of  all  points  of  thought 
or  expression  which  have  their  basis  in  Truth.  But  Truth  is 
often,  and  in  very  great  degree,  the  aim  of  the  tale.  Some  of 
the  finest  tales  are  tales  of  ratiocination.  Thus  the  field  of  this 
species  of  composition,  if  not  in  so  elevated  a  region  on  the 
mountain  of  Mind,  is  a  table-land  of  far  vaster  extent  than  the 
domain  of  the  mere  poem.  Its  products  are  never  so  rich,  but 
infinitely  more  numerous,  and  more  appreciable  by  the  mass 


156  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  mankind.  The  writer  of  the  prose  tale,  in  short,  may  bring 
to  his  theme  a  vast  variety  of  modes  or  inflections  of  thought 
and  expression  —  (the  ratiocinative,  for  example,  the  sarcastic, 
or  the  humorous)  which  are  not  only  antagonistical  to  the 
nature  of  the  poem,  but  absolutely  forbidden  by  one  of  its 
most  pecuHar  and  indispensable  adjuncts;  we  allude,  of  course, 
to  rhythm.  It  may  be  added  here,  par  parenthese,  that  the 
author  who  aims  at  the  purely  beautiful  in  a  prose  tale  is 
laboring  at  a  great  disadvantage.  For  Beauty  can  be  better 
treated  in  the  poem.  Not  so  with  terror,  or  passion,  or  horror, 
or  a  multitude  of  such  other  points.  And  here  it  will  be  seen 
how  full  of  prejudice  are  the  usual  animadversions  against 
those  tales  of  effect,  many  fine  examples  of  which  were  found  in 
the  earlier  numbers  of  Blackwood.  The  impressions  produced 
were  wrought  in  a  legitimate  sphere  of  action,  and  constituted 
a  legitimate  although  sometimes  an  exaggerated  interest.  They 
were  relished  by  every  man  of  genius:  although  there  were 
found  many  men  of  genius  who  condemned  them  without  just 
ground.  The  true  critic  will  but  demand  that  the  design  in- 
tended be  accomplished,  to  the  fullest  extent,  by  the  means 
most  advantageously  applicable. 

We  have  very  few  American  tales  of  real  merit  —  we  may 
say,  indeed,  none,  with  the  exception  of  The  Tales  of  a  Traveller 
of  Washington  Irving,  and  these  Twice-Told  Tales  of  Mr. 
Hawthorne.  Some  of  the  pieces  of  Mr.  John  Neal  abound  in 
vigor  and  originality;  but,  in  general,  his  compositions  of  this 
class  are  excessively  diffuse,  extravagant,  and  indicative  of  an 
imperfect  sentiment  of  Art.  Articles  at  random  are,  now  and 
then,  met  with  in  our  periodicals  which  might  be  advanta- 
geously compared  with  the  best  effusions  of  the  British  Maga- 
zines; but,  upon  the  whole,  we  are  far  behind  our  progenitors 
in  this  department  of  literature. 

Of  Mr.  Hawthorne's  tales  we  would  say,  emphatically,  that 
they  belong  to  the  highest  region  of  Art  —  an  Art  subservient 
to  genius  of  a  very  lofty  order.  We  had  supposed,  with  good 
reason  for  so  supposing,  that  he  had  been  thrust  into  his  pres- 
ent position  by  one  of  the  impudent  cliques  which  beset  oiir 
literature,  and  whose  pretensions  it  is  our  full  purpose  to  expose 
at  the  earliest  opportunity;  but  we  have  been  most  agreeably 
mistaken.  We  know  of  few  compositions  which  the  critic  can 


IL\WTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES         157 

more  honestly  commend  than  these  Twice-Told  Tales.  As 
Americans,  we  feel  proud  of  the  book. 

Mr.  Hawthorne's  distinctive  trait  is  invention,  creation, 
imagination,  originaHty  —  a  trait  which,  in  the  literature  of 
fiction,  is  positively  worth  all  the  rest.  But  the  nature  of  the 
originality,  so  far  as  regards  its  manifestation  in  letters,  is  but 
imperfectly  understood.  The  inventive  or  original  mind  as 
frequently  displays  itself  in  novelty  of  tone  as  in  novelty  of 
matter.  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  original  in  all  points. 

It  would  be  a  matter  of  some  difficulty  to  designate  the  best 
of  these  tales;  we  repeat  that,  without  exception,  they  are 
beautiful.  "Wakefield"  is  remarkable  for  the  skill  with  which 
an  old  idea  —  a  well-known  incident  —  is  worked  up  or  dis- 
cussed. A  man  of  whims  conceives  the  purpose  of  quitting  his 
wife  and  residing  incognito,  for  twenty  years,  in  her  immediate 
neighborhood.  Something  of  this  kind  actually  happened  in 
London.  The  force  of  Mr.  Hawthorne's  tale  Hes  in  the  analysis 
of  the  motives  which  must  or  might  have  impelled  the  husband 
to  such  folly,  in  the  first  instance,  with  the  possible  causes  of 
his  perseverance.  Upon  this  thesis  a  sketch  of  singular  power 
has  been  constructed. 

"The  Wedding  Knell"  is  full  of  the  boldest  imagination  — 
an  imagination  fully  controlled  by  taste.  The  most  captious 
critic  could  find  no  flaw  in  this  production. 

"The  Minister's  Black  Veil"  is  a  masterly  composition,  of 
which  the  sole  defect  is  that  to  the  rabble  its  exquisite  skill  will 
be  caviare.  The  obvious  meaning  of  this  article  will  be  found  to 
smother  its  insinuated  one.  The  moral  put  into  the  mouth  of 
the  dying  minister  will  be  supposed  to  convey  the  true  import 
of  the  narrative;  and  that  a  crime  of  dark  dye  (having  refer- 
ence to  the  "young  lady")  has  been  committed,  is  a  point 
which  only  minds  congenial  with  that  of  the  author  will  per- 
ceive. 

"  Mr.  Higginbotham's  Catastrophe"  is  vividly  original,  and 
managed  most  dexterously. 

"Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment"  is  exceedingly  well  imagined, 
and  executed  with  surpassing  ability.  The  artist  breathes  in 
every  line  of  it. 

"The  White  Old  Maid"  is  objectionable  even  more  than  the 
"Minister's  Black  Veil,"  on  the  score  of  its  mysticism.  Even 


158  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

with  the  thoughtful  and  analytic,  there  will  be  much  trouble 
in  penetrating  its  entire  import. 

''The  Hollow  of  the  Three  Hills"  we  would  quote  in  full  had 
we  space;  —  not  as  evincing  higher  talent  than  any  of  the 
other  pieces,  but  as  affording  an  excellent  example  of  the 
author's  peculiar  ability.  The  subject  is  commonplace.  A  witch 
subjects  the  Distant  and  the  Past  to  the  view  of  a  mourner.  It 
has  been  the  fashion  to  describe,  in  such  cases,  a  mirror  in 
which  the  images  of  the  absent  appear ;  or  a  cloud  of  smoke  is 
made  to  arise,  and  thence  the  figures  are  gradually  unfolded. 
Mr.  Hawthorne  has  wonderfully  heightened  his  effect  by  mak- 
ing the  ear,  in  place  of  the  eye,  the  medium  by  which  the  fan- 
tasy is  conveyed.  The  head  of  the  mourner  is  enveloped  in  the 
cloak  of  the  witch,  and  within  its  magic  folds  there  arise  sounds 
which  have  an  all-sufficient  intelligence.  Throughout  this  arti- 
cle also,  the  artist  is  conspicuous  —  not  more  in  positive  than 
in  negative  merits.  Not  only  is  all  done  that  should  be  done, 
but  (what  perhaps  is  an  end  with  more  difficulty  attained) 
there  is  nothing  done  which  should  not  be.  Every  word  tellSj 
and  there  is  not  a  word  which  does  not  tell. 

In  "Howe's  Masquerade"  we  observe  something  which  re- 
sembles plagiarism  —  but  which  may  he  a  very  flattering  coin- 
cidence of  thought.  We  quote  the  passage  in  question. 

[Quotation.]  ^ 
The  idea  here  is,  that  the  figure  in  the  cloak  is  the  phantom 
or  reduplication  of  Sir  William  Howe;  but  in  an  article  called 
''William  Wilson,"  one  of  the  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Ara- 
besque, we  have  not  only  the  same  idea,  but  the  same  idea 
similarly  presented  in  several  respects.  We  quote  two  para- 
graphs, which  our  readers  may  compare  with  what  has  been 
already  given.  We  have  italicized,  above,  the  immediate 
particulars  of  resemblance. 

[Quotation.]  ^ 
Here  it  will  be  observed  that,  not  only  are  the  two  general 
conceptions  identical,  but  there  are  various  points  of  similarity. 
In  each  case  the  figure  seen  is  the  wraith  or  duplication  of  the 
beholder.  In  each  case  the  scene  is  a  masquerade.  In  each  case 
the  figure  is  cloaked.  In  each,  there  is  a  quarrel  —  that  is  to 
*  Omitled  here,  as  in  the  text  of  the  Virginia  Edition. 


SHADOW  159 

say,  angry  words  pass  between  the  parties.  In  each  the  be- 
holder is  enraged.  In  each  the  cloak  and  sword  fall  upon  the 
floor.  The  "villain,  unmuffle  yourself,"  of  Mr.  H.  is  precisely 
paralleled  by  a  passage  at  page  56  of  "William  Wilson." 

In  the  way  of  objection  we  have  scarcely  a  word  to  say  of 
these  tales.  There  is,  perhaps,  a  somewhat  too  general  or 
prevalent  tone  —  a  tone  of  melancholy  and  mysticism.  The 
subjects  are  insufficiently  varied.  There  is  not  so  much  of 
versatility  evinced  as  we  might  well  be  warranted  in  expecting 
from  the  high  powers  of  Mr.  Hawthorne.  But  beyond  these 
trivial  exceptions  we  have  really  none  to  make.  The  style  is 
purity  itself.  Force  abounds.  High  imagination  gleams  from 
every  page.  Mr.  Hawthorne  is  a  man  of  the  truest  genius.  We 
only  regret  that  the  limits  of  our  Magazine  will  not  permit  us 
to  pay  him  that  full  tribute  of  commendation,  which,  under 
other  circumstances,  we  should  be  so  eager  to  pay. 


SHADOW 


Yea!  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  Shadow: 

—  Psalm  of  David. 

Ye  who  read  are  still  among  the  living:  but  I  who  write  shall 
have  long  since  gone  my  way  into  the  region  of  shadows.  For 
indeed  strange  things  shall  happen,  and  secret  things  be  knowTi, 
and  many  centuries  shall  pass  away,  ere  these  memorials  be 
seen  of  men.  And,  when  seen,  there  will  be  some  to  disbelieve 
and  some  to  doubt,  and  yet  a  few  who  will  find  much  to  ponder 
upon  in  the  characters  here  graven  with  a  stylus  of  iron. 

The  year  had  been  a  year  of  terror,  and  of  feelings  more 
intense  than  terror  for  which  there  is  no  name  upon  the  earth. 
For  many  prodigies  and  signs  had  taken  place,  and  far  and 
wide,  over  sea  and  land,  the  black  wings  of  the  Pestilence  were 
spread  abroad.  To  those,  nevertheless,  cunning  in  the  stars,  it 
was  not  unknown  that  the  heavens  wore  an  aspect  of  ill;  and 
to  me,  the  Greek  Oinos,^  among  others,  it  was  evident  that  now 
had  arrived  the  alternation  of  that  seven  hundred  and  ninety- 

*  Published  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  September,  1835. 
'  Oinos  is  Greek  for  "  wine." 


i6o  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

fourth  year  when,  at  the  entrance  of  Aries,  the  planet  Jupiter 
is  conjoined  with  the  red  ring  of  the  terrible  Saturnus.  The 
peculiar  spirit  of  the  skies,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly,  made  itself 
manifest,  not  only  in  the  physical  orb  of  the  earth,  but  in  the 
souls,  imaginations,  and  meditations  of  mankind. 

Over  some  flasks  of  the  red  Chian  wine,  within  the  walls  of 
a  noble  hall  in  a  dim  city  called  Ptolemais,  we  sat,  at  night,  a 
company  of  seven.  And  to  our  chamber  there  was  no  entrance 
save  by  a  lofty  door  of  brass :  and  the  door  was  fashioned  by  the 
artisan  Corinnos,  and,  being  of  rare  workmanship,  was  fas- 
tened from  within.  Black  draperies  likewise,  in  the  gloomy 
room,  shut  out  from  our  view  the  moon,  the  lurid  stars,  and  the 
peopleless  streets  —  but  the  boding  and  the  memory  of  Evil, 
they  would  not  be  so  excluded.  There  were  things  around  us 
and  about  of  which  I  can  render  no  distinct  account  —  things 
material  and  spiritual  —  heaviness  in  the  atmosphere  —  a 
sense  of  suffocation  —  anxiety  —  and,  above  all,  that  terrible 
state  of  existence  which  the  nervous  experience  when  the  senses 
:are  keenly  living  and  awake,  and  meanwhile  the  powers  of 
thought  lie  dormant.  A  dead  weight  hung  upon  us.  It  hung 
upon  our  Hmbs  —  upon  the  household  furniture  —  upon  the 
goblets  from  which  we  drank;  and  all  things  were  depressed 
.and  borne  down  thereby  —  all  things  save  only  the  flames  of 
i:he  seven  iron  lamps  which  illumined  our  revel.  Uprearing 
themselves  in  tall  slender  lines  of  light,  they  thus  remained 
•burning  all  palHd  and  motionless;  and  in  the  mirror  which  their 
lustre  formed  upon  the  round  table  of  ebony  at  which  we  sat, 
each  of  us  there  assembled  beheld  the  pallor  of  his  own  counte- 
nance, and  the  unquiet  glare  in  the  downcast  eyes  of  his  com- 
panions. Yet  we  laughed  and  were  merry  in  our  proper  way  — 
which  was  hysterical ;  and  sang  the  songs  of  Anacreon  —  which 
are  madness;  and  drank  deeply  —  although  the  purple  wine 
reminded  us  of  blood.  For  there  was  yet  another  tenant  of  our 
chamber  in  the  person  of  young  Zoilus.  Dead  and  at  full  length 
he  lay,  enshrouded;  —  the  genius  and  the  demon  of  the  scene. 
Alas!  he  bore  no  portion  in  our  mirth,  save  that  his  counte- 
nance, distorted  with  the  plague,  and  his  eyes  in  which  Death 
had  but  half  extinguished  the  fire  of  the  pestilence,  seemed  to 
take  such  interest  in  our  merriment  as  the  dead  may  haply 
take  in  the  merriment  of  those  who  are  to  die.  But  although  I, 


SHADOW  i6i 

Oinos,  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  departed  were  upon  me,  still  I 
forced  myself  not  to  perceive  the  bitterness  of  their  expression, 
and,  gazing  down  steadily  into  the  depths  of  the  ebony  mirror, 
sang  with  a  loud  and  sonorous  voice  the  songs  of  the  son  of 
Teios.  But  gradually  my  songs  they  ceased,  and  their  echoes, 
rolling  afar  off  among  the  sable  draperies  of  the  chamber,  be- 
came weak,  and  undistinguishable,  and  so  faded  away.  And 
lo!  from  among  those  sable  draperies  where  the  sounds  of  the 
song  departed,  there  came  forth  a  dark  and  undefined  shadow 
—  a  shadow  such  as  the  moon,  when  low  in  heaven,  might 
fashion  from  the  figure  of  a  man:  but  it  was  the  shadow^  neither 
of  man,  nor  of  God,  nor  of  any  familiar  thing.  And,  quivering 
awhile  among  the  draperies  of  the  room,  it  at  length  rested  in 
full  view  upon  the  surface  of  the  door  of  brass.  But  the  shadow 
was  vague,  and  formless,  and  indefinite,  and  was  the  shadow 
neither  of  man,  nor  of  God  —  neither  God  of  Greece,  nor  God 
of  Chaldaea,  nor  any  Egyptian  God.  And  the  shadow  rested 
upon  the  brazen  doorway,  and  under  the  arch  of  the  entabla- 
ture of  the  door,  and  moved  not,  nor  spoke  any  word,  but  there 
became  stationary  and  remained.  And  the  door  whereupon  the 
shadow  rested  was,  if  I  remember  aright,  over  against  the  feet 
of  the  young  Zo'ilus  enshrouded.  But  we,  the  seven  there 
assembled,  having  seen  the  shadow  as  it  came  out  from  among 
the  draperies,  dared  not  steadily  behold  it,  but  cast  down  our 
eyes,  and  gazed  continually  into  the  depths  of  the  mirror  of 
ebony.  And  at  length  I,  Oinos,  speaking  some  low  words,  de- 
manded of  the  shadow  its  dwelling  and  its  appellation.  And 
the  shadow  answered,  **I  am  SHADOW,  and  my  dwelling  is 
near  to  the  catacombs  of  Ptolemais,  and  hard  by  those  dim 
plains  of  Helusion^  which  border  upon  the  foul  Charonian 
canal."  2  And  then  did  we,  the  seven,  start  from  our  seats  in 
horror,  and  stand  trembling,  and  shuddering,  and  aghast:  for 
the  tones  in  the  voice  of  the  shadow  were  not  the  tones  of  any 
one  being,  but  of  a  multitude  of  beings,  and,  varying  in  their 
cadences  from  syllable  to  syllable,  fell  duskily  upon  our  ears  in 
the  well-remembered  and  familiar  accents  of  many  thousand 
departed  friends. 

^  Elysium. 

2  The  river  over  which  Charon  ferried  the  souls  to  Hades. 


i62  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH  ^ 

The  *'Red  Death"  had  long  devastated  the  country.  No 
pestilence  had  ever  been  so  fatal  or  so  hideous.  Blood  was  its 
Avatar  and  its  seal  —  the  redness  and  the  horror  of  blood. 
There  were  sharp  pains,  and  sudden  dizziness,  and  then  pro- 
fuse bleeding  at  the  pores,  with  dissolution.  The  scarlet  stains 
upon  the  body  and  especially  upon  the  face  of  the  victim,  were 
the  pest  ban  which  shut  him  out  from  the  aid  and  from  the 
sympathy  of  his  fellow-men.  And  the  whole  seizure,  progress, 
and  termination  of  the  disease  were  the  incidents  of  half  an 
hour. 

But  the  Prince  Prospero  was  happy  and  dauntless  and  saga- 
cious. When  his  dominions  were  half  depopulated,  he  sum- 
moned to  his  presence  a  thousand  hale  and  Ught-hearted  friends 
from  among  the  knights  and  dames  of  his  court,  and  with 
these  retired  to  the  deep  seclusion  of  one  of  his  castellated 
abbeys.  This  was  an  extensive  and  magnificent  structure,  the 
creation  of  the  prince's  own  eccentric  yet  august  taste.  A 
strong  and  lofty  wall  girdled  it  in.  This  wall  had  gates  of  iron. 
The  courtiers,  having  entered,  brought  furnaces  and  massy 
hammers  and  welded  the  bolts.  They  resolved  to  leave  means 
neither  of  ingress  nor  egress  to  the  sudden  impulses  of  despair 
or  of  frenzy  from  within.  The  abbey  was  amply  provisioned. 
With  such  precautions  the  courtiers  might  bid  defiance  to  con- 
tagion. The  external  world  could  take  care  of  itself.  In  the 
mean  time  it  was  folly  to  grieve,  or  to  think.  The  prince  had 
provided  all  the  appliances  of  pleasure.  There  were  buffoons, 
there  were  improvisatori,  there  were  ballet  dancers,  there  were 
musicians,  there  was  Beauty,  there  was  wine.  All  these  and 
security  were  within.  Without  was  the  "Red  Death." 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  fifth  or  sixth  month  of  his 
seclusion,  and  while  the  pestilence  raged  most  furiously  abroad, 
that  the  Prince  Prospero  entertained  his  thousand  friends  at  a 
masked  ball  of  the  most  unusual  magnificence. 

It  was  a  voluptuous  scene,  that  masquerade.   But  first  let 

me  tell  of  the  rooms  in  which  it  was  held.   There  were  seven 

—  an  imperial  suite.   In  many  palaces,  however,  such  suites 

form  a  long  and  straight  vista,  while  the  folding  doors  slide 

*  Published  in  Graham's  Magazine,  May,  1842. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH         163 

back  nearly  to  the  walls  on  either  hand,  so  that  the  view  of  the 
whole  extent  is  scarcely  impeded.  Here  the  case  was  very  dif- 
ferent, as  might  have  been  expected  from  the  prince's  love  of 
the  bizarre.  The  apartments  were  so  irregularly  disposed  that 
the  vision  embraced  but  little  more  than  one  at  a  time.  There 
was  a  sharp  turn  at  every  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  and  at  each 
turn  a  novel  effect.  To  the  right  and  left,  in  the  middle  of  each 
wall,  a  tall  and  narrow  Gothic  window  looked  out  upon  a  closed 
corridor  which  pursued  the  windings  of  the  suite.  These  win- 
dows were  of  stained  glass  whose  color  varied  in  accordance 
with  the  prevailing  hue  of  the  decorations  of  the  chamber  into 
which  it  opened.  That  at  the  eastern  extremity  was  hung,  for 
example,  in  blue  —  and  vividly  blue  were  its  windows.  The 
second  chamber  was  purple  in  its  ornaments  and  tapestries,  and 
bere  the  panes  were  purple.  The  third  was  green  throughout, 
and  so  were  the  casements.  The  fourth  was  furnished  and 
lighted  with  orange  —  the  fifth  with  white  —  the  sixth  with 
violet.  The  seventh  apartment  was  closely  shrouded  in  black 
velvet  tapestries  that  hung  all  over  the  ceiling  and  down  the 
walls,  falling  in  heavy  folds  upon  a  carpet  of  the  same  material 
and  hue.  But  in  this  chamber  only,  the  color  of  the  windows 
failed  to  correspond  with  the  decorations.  The  panes  here  were 
scarlet  —  a  deep  blood-color.  Now  in  no  one  of  the  seven 
apartments  was  there  any  lamp  or  candelabnmi,  amid  the 
profusion  of  golden  ornaments  that  lay  scattered  to  and  fro  or 
depended  from  the  roof.  There  was  no  light  of  any  kind  ema- 
nating from  lamp  or  candle  within  the  suite  of  chambers.  But 
in  the  corridors  that  followed  the  suite  there  stood,  opposite  to 
each  window,  a  heavy  tripod,  bearing  a  brazier  of  fire,  that  pro- 
jected its  rays  through  the  tinted  glass  and  so  glaringly  illu- 
mined the  room.  And  thus  were  produced  a  multitude  of  gaudy 
and  fantastic  appearances.  But  in  the  western  or  black  cham- 
ber the  effect  of  the  fire-light  that  streamed  upon  the  dark 
hangings  through  the  blood-tinted  panes  was  ghastly  in  the 
extreme,  and  produced  so  wild  a  look  upon  the  countenances  of 
those  who  entered,  that  there  were  few  of  the  company  bold 
enough  to  set  foot  within  its  precincts  at  all. 

It  was  in  this  apartment,  also,  that  there  stood  against  the 
western  wall  a  gigantic  clock  of  ebony.  Its  pendulum  swung  to 
and  fro  with  a  dull,  heavy,  monotonous  clang;  and,  when  the 


i64  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

minute-hand  made  the  circuit  of  the  face,  and  the  hour  was  to 
be  stricken,  there  came  from  the  brazen  lungs  of  the  clock  a 
sound  which  was  clear  and  loud  and  deep  and  exceedingly 
musical,  but  of  so  peculiar  a  note  and  emphasis  that,  at  each 
lapse  of  an  hour,  the  musicians  of  the  orchestra  were  constrained 
to  pause,  momentarily,  in  their  performance,  to  hearken  to  the 
sound;  and  thus  the  waltzers  perforce  ceased  their  evolutions; 
and  there  was  a  brief  disconcert  of  the  whole  gay  company; 
and,  while  the  chimes  of  the  clock  yet  rang,  it  was  observed 
that  the  giddiest  grew  pale,  and  the  more  aged  and  sedate 
passed  their  hands  over  their  brows  as  if  in  confused  reverie  or 
meditation.  But  when  the  echoes  had  fully  ceased,  a  light 
laughter  at  once  pervaded  the  assembly;  the  musicians  looked 
at  each  other  and  smiled  as  if  at  their  own  nervousness  and 
folly,  and  made  whispering  vows,  each  to  the  other,  that  the 
next  chiming  of  the  clock  should  produce  in  them  no  similar 
emotion;  and  then,  after  the  lapse  of  sixty  minutes  (which  em- 
brace three  thousand  and  six  hundred  seconds  of  the  Time  that 
flies),  there  came  yet  another  chiming  of  the  clock,  and  then 
were  the  same  disconcert  and  tremulousness  and  meditation 
as  before. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  things,  it  was  a  gay  and  magnificent 
revel.  The  tastes  of  the  prince  were  peculiar.  He  had  a  fine  eye 
for  colors  and  effects.  He  disregarded  the  decora  ^  of  mere 
fashion.  His  plans  were  bold  and  fiery,  and  his  conceptions 
glowed  with  barbaric  lustre.  There  are  some  who  would  have 
thought  him  mad.  His  followers  felt  that  he  was  not.  It  was 
necessary  to  hear  and  see  and  touch  him  to  be  sure  that  he  was 
not. 

He  had  directed,  in  great  part,  the  moveable  embellishments 
of  the  seven  chambers,  upon  occasion  of  this  great  fete;  and  it 
was  his  own  guiding  taste  which  had  given  character  to  the 
masqueraders.  Be  sure  they  were  grotesque.  There  were  much 
glare  and  glitter  and  piquancy  and  phantasm  —  much  of 
what  has  been  since  seen  in  Hernani}  There  were  arabesque 
figures  with  unsuited  limbs  and  appointments.  There  were 
delirious  fancies  such  as  the  madman  fashions.  There  was  much 
of  the  beautiful,  much  of  the  wanton,  much  of  the  bizarre, 
something  of  the  terrible,  and  not  a  little  of  that  which  might 
*  Proprieties.  *  A  famous  play  by  Victor  Hugo. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH         165 

have  excited  disgust.  To  and  fro  in  the  seven  chambers  there 
stalked,  in  fact,  a  multitude  of  dreams.  And  these  —  the 
dreams  —  writhed  in  and  about,  taking  hue  from  the  rooms, 
and  causing  the  wild  music  of  the  orchestra  to  seem  as  the  echo 
of  their  steps.  And,  anon,  there  strikes  the  ebony  clock  which 
stands  in  the  hall  of  the  velvet.  And  then,  for  a  moment,  all  is 
still,  and  all  is  silent  save  the  voice  of  the  clock.  The  dreams  are 
stiff-frozen  as  they  stand.  But  the  echoes  of  the  chime  die 
away  —  they  have  endured  but  an  instant  —  and  a  light,  half- 
subdued  laughter  floats  after  them  as  they  depart.  And  now 
again  the  music  swells,  and  the  dreams  live,  and  writhe  to  and 
fro  more  merrily  than  ever,  taking  hue  from  the  many  tinted 
windows  through  which  stream  the  rays  from  the  tripods.  But 
to  the  chamber  which  lies  most  westwardly  of  the  seven  there 
are  now  none  of  the  maskers  who  venture;  for  the  night  is 
waning  away;  and  there  flows  a  ruddier  light  through  the  blood- 
colored  panes;  and  the  blackness  of  the  sable  drapery  appalls; 
and,  to  him  whose  foot  falls  upon  the  sable  carpet,  there  comes 
from  the  near  clock  of  ebony  a  muffled  peal  more  solemnly 
emphatic  than  any  which  reaches  their  ears  who  indulge  in  the 
more  remote  gayeties  of  the  other  apartments. 

But  these  other  apartments  were  densely  crowded,  and  in 
them  beat  feverishly  the  heart  of  life.  And  the  revel  went 
whirUngly  on,  until  at  length  there  commenced  the  sounding 
of  midnight  upon  the  clock.  And  then  the  music  ceased, 
as  I  have  told;  and  the  evolutions  of  the  waltzers  were 
quieted;  and  there  was  an  uneasy  cessation  of  all  things  as 
before.  But  now  there  were  twelve  strokes  to  be  sounded  by 
the  bell  of  the  clock;  and  thus  it  happened,  perhaps,  that  more 
of  thought  crept,  with  more  of  time,  into  the  meditations  of  the 
thoughtful  among  those  who  reveled.  And  thus  too  it  happened, 
perhaps,  that  before  the  last  echoes  of  the  last  chime  had 
utterly  sunk  into  silence,  there  were  many  individuals  in  the 
crowd  who  had  found  leisure  to  become  aware  of  the  presence 
of  a  masked  figure  which  had  arrested  the  attention  of  no 
single  individual  before.  And  the  rumor  of  this  new  presence 
having  spread  itself  whisperingly  around,  there  arose  at  length 
from  the  whole  company  a  buzz,  or  murmur,  expressive  of  dis- 
approbation and  surprise  —  then,  finally,  of  terror,  of  horror, 
and  of  disgust. 


i66  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

In  an  assembly  of  phantasms  such  as  I  have  painted,  it  may 
well  be  supposed  that  no  ordinary  appearance  could  have 
excited  such  sensation.  In  truth  the  masquerade  license  of  the 
night  was  nearly  unlimited;  but  the  figure  in  question  had  out- 
Heroded  Herod,  and  gone  beyond  the  bounds  of  even  the 
prince's  indefinite  decorum.  There  are  chords  in  the  hearts  of 
the  most  reckless  which  cannot  be  touched  without  emotion. 
Even  with  the  utterly  lost,  to  whom  hfe  and  death  are  equally 
jests,  there  are  matters  of  which  no  jests  can  be  made.  The 
whole  company,  indeed,  seemed  now  deeply  to  feel  that  in  the 
costume  and  bearing  of  the  stranger  neither  wit  nor  propriety 
existed.  The  figure  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and  shrouded  from 
head  to  foot  in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave.  The  mask  which 
concealed  the  visage  was  made  so  nearly  to  resemble  the  coun- 
tenance of  a  stiffened  corpse  that  the  closest  scrutiny  must  have 
had  difficulty  in  detecting  the  cheat.  And  yet  all  this  might 
have  been  endured,  if  not  approved,  by  the  mad  revelers 
around.  But  the  mummer  had  gone  so  far  as  to  assume  the 
type  of  the  Red  Death.  His  vesture  was  dabbled  in  hlood  — 
and  his  broad  brow,  with  all  the  features  of  the  face,  was  be- 
sprinkled with  the  scarlet  horror. 

When  the  eyes  of  Prince  Prospero  fell  upon  this  spectral 
image  (which  with  a  slow  and  solemn  movement,  as  if  more 
fully  to  sustain  its  role,  stalked  to  and  fro  among  the  waltzers) 
he  was  seen  to  be  convulsed,  in  the  first  moment,  with  a  strong 
shudder  either  of  terror  or  distaste;  but,  in  the  next,  his  brow 
reddened  with  rage. 

"Who  dares?"  he  demanded  hoarsely  of  the  courtiers  who 
stood  near  him  —  "who  dares  insult  us  with  this  blasphemous 
mockery?  Seize  him  and  unmask  him  —  that  we  may  know 
whom  we  have  to  hang  at  sunrise  from  the  battlements!" 

It  was  in  the  eastern  or  blue  chamber  in  which  stood  the 
Prince  Prospero  as  he  uttered  these  words.  They  rang  through- 
out the  seven  rooms  loudly  and  clearly  —  for  the  prince  was  a 
bold  and  robust  man,  and  the  music  had  become  hushed  at  the 
waving  of  his  hand. 

It  was  in  the  blue  room  where  stood  the  prince,  with  a  group 
of  pale  courtiers  by  his  side.  At  first,  as  he  spoke,  there  was 
a  slight  rushing  movement  of  this  group  in  the  direction  of  the 
intruder,  who  at  the  moment  was  also  near  at  hand,  and  now, 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH    167 

with  deKberate  and  stately  step,  made  closer  approach  to  the 
speaker.  But  from  a  certain  nameless  awe  with  which  the  mad 
assumption  of  the  mummer  had  inspired  the  whole  party, 
there  were  found  none  who  put  forth  hand  to  seize  him;  so 
that,  unimpeded,  he  passed  within  a  yard  of  the  prince's  per- 
son; and,  while  the  vast  assembly,  as  if  with  one  impulse, 
shrank  from  the  centres  of  the  rooms  to  the  walls,  he  made  his 
way  uninterruptedly,  but  with  the  same  solemn  and  measured 
step  which  had  distinguished  him  from  the  first,  through  the 
blue  chamber  to  the  purple  —  through  the  purple  to  the  green 
—  through  the  green  to  the  orange  —  through  this  again  to 
the  white  —  and  even  thence  to  the  violet,  ere  a  decided  move- 
ment had  been  made  to  arrest  him.  It  was  then,  however,  that 
the  Prince  Prospero,  maddening  with  rage  and  the  shame  of  his 
own  momentary  cowardice,  rushed  hurriedly  through  the  six 
chambers,  while  none  followed  him  on  account  of  a  deadly 
terror  that  had  seized  upon  all.  He  bore  aloft  a  drawn  dagger, 
and  had  approached,  in  rapid  impetuosity,  to  within  three  or 
four  feet  of  the  retreating  figure,  when  the  latter,  having  at- 
tained the  extremity  of  the  velvet  apartment,  turned  suddenly 
and  confronted  his  pursuer.  There  was  a  sharp  cry  —  and  the 
dagger  dropped  gleaming  upon  the  sable  carpet,  upon  which, 
instantly  afterwards,  fell  prostrate  in  death  the  Prince  Pros- 
pero. Then,  summoning  the  wild  courage  of  despair,  a  throng 
of  the  revelers  at  once  threw  themselves  into  the  black  apart- 
ment, and,  seizing  the  mummer,  whose  tall  figure  stood  erect 
and  motionless  within  the  shadow  of  the  ebony  clock,  gasped  in 
unutterable  horror  at  finding  the  grave  cerements  and  corpse- 
like mask,  which  they  handled  with  so  violent  a  rudeness,  im- 
tenanted  by  any  tangible  form. 

And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence  of  the  Red  Death. 
He  had  come  Hke  a  thief  in  the  night.  And  one  by  one  dropped 
the  revelers  in  the  blood-bedewed  halls  of  their  revel,  and  died 
each  in  the  despairing  posture  of  his  fall.  And  the  life  of  the 
ebony  clock  went  out  ^dth  that  of  the  last  of  the  gay.  And  the 
flames  of  the  tripods  expired.  And  Darkness  and  Decay  and 
the  Red  Death  held  illimitable  dominion  over  all. 


i68  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  ^ 

The  thousand  injuries  of  Fortunato  I  had  borne  as  I  best 
could,  but  when  he  ventured  upon  insult,  I  vowed  revenge. 
You,  who  so  well  know  the  nature  of  my  soul,  will  not  suppose, 
however,  that  I  gave  utterance  to  a  threat.  At  length  I  would 
be  avenged;  this  was  a  point  definitely  settled  —  but  the  very 
definitiveness  with  which  it  was  resolved  precluded  the  idea  of 
risk.  I  must  not  only  punish,  but  punish  with  impunity.  A 
wrong  is  unredressed  when  retribution  overtakes  its  redresser. 
It  is  equally  unredressed  when  the  avenger  fails  to  make  him- 
self felt  as  such  to  him  who  has  done  the  wrong. 

It  must  be  understood  that  neither  by  word  nor  deed  had  I 
given  Fortunato  cause  to  doubt  my  good-will.  I  continued,  as 
was  my  wont,  to  smile  in  his  face,  and  he  did  not  perceive  that 
my  smile  now  was  at  the  thought  of  his  immolation. 

He  had  a  weak  point  —  this  Fortunato  —  although  in  other 
regards  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected  and  even  feared.  He 
prided  himself  on  his  connoisseurship  in  wine.  Few  Italians 
have  the  true  virtuoso  spirit.  For  the  most  part  their  enthusi- 
asm is  adopted  to  suit  the  time  and  opportunity  to  practise 
imposture  upon  the  British  and  Austrian  millionaires.  In 
painting  and  gemmary  Fortunato,  like  his  countrymen,  was  a 
quack,  but  in  the  matter  of  old  wines  he  was  sincere.  In  this  re- 
spect I  did  not  differ  from  him  materially;  —  I  was  skilful  in  the 
Italian  vintages  myself,  and  bought  largely  whenever  I  could. 

It  was  about  dusk,  one  evening  during  the  supreme  madness 
of  the  carnival  season,  that  I  encountered  my  friend.  He 
accosted  me  with  excessive  warmth,  for  he  had  been  drinking 
much.  The  man  wore  motley.  He  had  on  a  tight-fitting  parti- 
striped  dress,  and  his  head  was  surmounted  by  the  conical  cap 
and  bells.  I  was  so  pleased  to  see  him,  that  I  thought  I  should 
never  have  done  wringing  his  hand. 

I  said  to  him  —  ^'My  dear  Fortunato,  you  are  luckily  met. 
How  remarkably  well  you  are  looking  to-day!  But  I  have  re- 
ceived a  pipe  of  what  passes  for  Amontillado,  and  I  have  my 
doubts." 

^* How?"  said  he.  "Amontillado?  A  pipe?  Impossible!  And 
in  the  middle  of  the  carnival!" 

*  Published  in  Godey^s  Lady^s  Book,  November,  1846. 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  169 

**I  have  my  doubts,"  I  replied;  "and  I  was  silly  enough  to 
pay  the  full  Amontillado  price  without  consulting  you  in  the 
matter.  You  were  not  to  be  found,  and  I  was  fearful  of  losing 
a  bargain." 

"Amontillado!" 

"I  have  my  doubts." 

"Amontillado!" 

"And  I  must  satisfy  them." 

"Amontillado!" 

"As  you  are  engaged,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Luchesi.  If  any 
one  has  a  critical  turn,  it  is  he.  He  will  tell  me  — " 

"Luchesi  cannot  tell  Amontillado  from  Sherry." 

"And  yet  some  fools  will  have  it  that  his  taste  is  a  match  for 
your  own." 

"Come,  let  us  go." 

"Whither?" 

"To  your  vaults." 

"My  friend,  no;  I  will  not  impose  upon  your  good  nature. 
I  perceive  you  have  an  engagement.  Luchesi  — " 

"I  have  no  engagement;  —  come." 

"My  friend,  no.  It  is  not  the  engagement,  but  the  severe 
cold  with  which  I  perceive  you  are  afflicted.  The  vaults  are 
insufferably  damp.  They  are  encrusted  with  nitre." 

"Let  us  go,  nevertheless.  The  cold  is  merely  nothing.  Amon- 
tillado! You  have  been  imposed  upon;  and  as  for  Luchesi,  he 
cannot  distinguish  Sherry  from  Amontillado." 

Thus  speaking,  Fortunato  possessed  himself  of  my  arm; 
and  putting  on  a  mask  of  black  silk  and  drawing  a  roquelaure 
closely  about  my  person,  I  suffered  him  to  hurry  me  to  my 
palazzo. 

There  were  no  attendants  at  home;  they  had  absconded  to 
make  merry  in  honor  of  the  time.  I  had  told  them  that  I  should 
not  return  until  the  morning,  and  had  given  them'  explicit 
orders  not  to  stir  from  the  house.  These  orders  were  sufficient, 
I  well  knew,  to  insure  their  immediate  disappearance,  one  and 
aU,  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned. 

I  took  from  their  sconces  two  flambeaux,  and  giving  one  to 
Fortunato,  bowed  him  through  several  suites  of  rooms  to  the 
archway  that  led  into  the  vaults.  I  passed  down  a  long  and 
winding  staircase,  requesting  him  to  be  cautious  as  he  followed. 


I70  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

We  came  at  length  to  the  foot  of  the  descent,  and  stood  to- 
gether on  the  damp  ground  of  the  catacombs  of  the  Montresors. 

The  gait  of  my  friend  was  unsteady,  and  the  bells  upon  his 
cap  jingled  as  he  strode. 

**The  pipe,"  he  said. 

"It  is  farther  on,"  said  I;  "but  observe  the  white  web-work 
which  gleams  from  these  cavern  walls." 

He  turned  towards  me,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  two 
filmy  orbs  that  distilled  the  rheum  of  intoxication. 

"Nitre?"  he  asked,  at  length. 

"Nitre,"  I  replied.   "How  long  have  you  had  that  cough!" 

"Ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  — 
ugh!  ugh!  ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh!" 

My  poor  friend  found  it  impossible  to  reply  for  many 
minutes. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Come,"  I  said,  with  decision,  "we  will  go  back;  your  health 
is  precious.  You  are  rich,  respected,  admired,  beloved;  you 
are  happy,  as  once  I  was.  You  are  a  man  to  be  missed.  For  me 
it  is  no  matter.  We  will  go  back;  you  will  be  ill,  and  I  cannot 
be  responsible.  Besides,  there  is  Luchesi  — " 

"Enough,"  he  said;  "the  cough  is  a  mere  nothing;  it  will  not 
kill  me.  I  shall  not  die  of  a  cough." 

"True  —  true,"  I  replied;  "and,  indeed,  I  had  no  intention  of 
alarming  you  unnecessarily — but  you  should  use  all  proper  cau- 
tion.   A  draught  of  this  Medoc  will  defend  us  from  the  damps." 

Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which  I  drew  from  a 
long  row  of  its  fellows  that  lay  upon  the  mould. 

"Drink,"  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine. 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused  and  nodded  to 
me  familiarly,  while  his  bells  jingled. 

"I  drink,"  he  said,  "to  the  buried  that  repose  around  us." 

"And  I  to  your  long  Hfe." 

He  again  took  my  arm,  and  we  proceeded. 

"These  vaults,"  he  said,  "are  extensive." 

"The  Montresors,"  I  replied,  "were  a  great  and  numerous 
family." 

"I  forgot  your  arms." 

"A  huge  human  foot  d'or,  in  a  field  azure;  the  foot  crushes 
a  serpent  rampant  whose  fangs  are  imbedded  in  the  heel." 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  171 

"And  the  motto?" 

"Ne7no  me  impune  lacessitJ'^  ^ 

"Good!"  he  said. 

The  wine  sparkled  in  his  eyes  and  the  bells  jingled.  My  own 
fancy  grew  warm  with  the  Medoc.  We  had  passed  through  walls 
of  piled  bones,  with  casks  and  puncheons  intermingling,  into 
the  inmost  recesses  of  the  catacombs.  I  paused  again,  and  this 
time  I  made  bold  to  seize  Fortunato  by  an  arm  above  the  elbow. 

"The  nitre!"  I  said;  "see,  it  increases.  It  hangs  like  moss 
upon  the  vaults.  We  are  below  the  river's  bed.  The  drops  of 
moisture  trickle  among  the  bones.  Come,  we  will  go  back  ere 
it  is  too  late.  Your  cough  — " 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said;  "let  us  go  on.  But  first,  another 
draught  of  the  Medoc." 

I  broke  and  reached  him  a  flagon  of  De  Gr§<ve.  He  emptied 
it  at  a  breath.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce  light.  He  laughed 
and  threw  the  bottle  upwards  with  a  gesticulation  I  did  not 
understand. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  repeated  the  movement  —  a 
grotesque  one. 

"You  do  not  comprehend?"  he  said. 

"Not  I,"  I  replied. 

"Then  you  are  not  of  the  brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"You  are  not  of  the  masons." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said;  "yes,  yes." 

"You?  Impossible!  A  mason?" 

"A  mason,"  I  replied. 

"A  sign,"  he  said,  "a  sign." 

"It  is  this,"  I  answered,  producing  from  beneath  the  folds  of 
my  roquelaure  a  trowel. 

"You  jest,"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  a  few  paces.  "But  let 
us  proceed  to  the  Amontillado." 

"Be  it  so,"  I  said,  replacing  the  tool  beneath  the  cloak,  and 
again  offering  him  my  arm.  He  leaned  upon  it  heavily.  We 
continued  our  route  in  search  of  the  Amontillado.  We  passed 
through  a  range  of  low  arches,  descended,  passed  on,  and  de- 
scended again,  arrived  at  a  deep  crypt,  in  which  the  foulness  of 
the  air  caused  our  flambeaux  rather  to  glow  than  flame. 
^  "No  one  injures  me  with  impunity." 


172  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

At  the  most  remote  end  of  the  crypt  there  appeared  another 
less  spacious.  Its  walls  had  been  lined  with  human  remains 
piled  to  the  vault  overhead,  in  the  fashion  of  the  great  cata- 
combs of  Paris.  Three  sides  of  this  interior  crypt  were  still 
ornamented  in  this  manner.  From  the  fourth  the  bones  had 
been  thrown  down,  and  lay  promiscuously  upon  the  earth, 
forming  at  one  point  a  mound  of  some  size.  Within  the  wall 
thus  exposed  by  the  displacing  of  the  bones,  we  perceived  a 
still  interior  recess,  in  depth  about  four  feet,  in  width  three,  in 
height  six  or  seven.  It  seemed  to  have  been  constructed  for 
no  especial  use  within  itself,  but  formed  merely  the  interval 
between  two  of  the  colossal  supports  of  the  roof  of  the  cata- 
combs, and  was  backed  by  one  of  their  circumscribing  walls  of 
solid  granite. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Fortunato,  uplifting  his  dull  torch,  en- 
deavored to  pry  into  the  depths  of  the  recess.  Its  termina- 
tion the  feeble  light  did  not  enable  us  to  see. 

*^ Proceed,"  I  said;  *' herein  is  the  Amontillado.  As  for 
Luchesi  — " 

"He  is  an  ignoramus,"  interrupted  my  friend,  as  he  stepped 
unsteadily  forward,  while  I  followed  immediately  at  his  heels. 
In  an  instant  he  had  reached  the  extremity  of  the  niche,  and 
finding  his  progress  arrested  by  the  rock,  stood  stupidly  bewil- 
dered. A  moment  more  and  I  had  fettered  him  to  the  granite. 
In  its  surface  were  two  iron  staples,  distant  from  each  other 
about  two  feet,  horizontally.  From  one  of  these  depended  a 
short  chain,  from  the  other  a  padlock.  Throwing  the  links 
about  his  waist,  it  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  seconds  to  secure 
it.  He  was  too  much  astounded  to  resist.  Withdrawing  the 
key  I  stepped  back  from  the  recess. 

"Pass  your  hand,"  I  said,  "over  the  wall;  you  cannot  help 
feeling  the  nitre.  Indeed  it  is  'dery  damp.  Once  more  let  me 
implore  you  to  return.  No?  Then  I  must  positively  leave  you. 
But  I  must  first  render  you  all  the  Httle  attentions  in  my  power." 

"The  Amontillado  1 "  ejaculated  my  friend,  not  yet  recovered 
from  his  astonishment. 

"True,"  I  replied;  "the  Amontillado." 

As  I  said  these  words  I  busied  myself  among  the  pile  of  bones 
of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  Throwing  them  aside,  I  soon 
uncovered  a  quantity  of  building  stone  and  mortar.  With  these 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  173 

materials  and  with  the  aid  of  my  trowel,  I  began  vigorously  to 
wall  up  the  entrance  of  the  niche. 

I  had  scarcely  laid  the  first  tier  of  the  masonry  when  I  dis- 
covered that  the  intoxication  of  Fortunato  had  in  a  great 
measure  worn  off.  The  earliest  indication  I  had  of  this  was  a 
low  moaning  cry  from  the  depth  of  the  recess.  It  was  not  the 
cry  of  a  drunken  man.  There  was  then  a  long  and  obstinate 
silence.  I  laid  the  second  tier,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth; 
and  then  I  heard  the  furious  vibrations  of  the  chain.  The 
noise  lasted  for  several  minutes,  during  which,  that  I  might 
hearken  to  it  with  the  more  satisfaction,  I  ceased  my  labors 
and  sat  down  upon  the  bones.  When  at  last  the  clanking  sub- 
sided, I  resumed  the  trowel,  and  finished  without  interruption 
the  fifth,  the  sixth,  and  the  seventh  tier.  The  wall  was  now 
nearly  upon  a  level  with  my  breast.  I  again  paused,  and  hold- 
ing the  flambeaux  over  the  mason-work,  threw  a  few  feeble 
rays  upon  the  figure  within. 

A  succession  of  loud  and  shrill  screams,  bursting  suddenly 
from  the  throat  of  the  chained  form,  seemed  to  thrust  me 
violently  back.  For  a  brief  moment  I  hesitated,  I  trembled. 
Unsheathing  my  rapier,  I  began  to  grope  with  it  about  the 
recess;  but  the  thought  of  an  instant  reassured  me.  I  placed 
my  hand  upon  the  solid  fabric  of  the  catacombs,  and  felt  satis- 
fied. I  reapproached  the  wall.  I  replied  to  the  yells  of  him  who 
clamored.  I  reechoed,  I  aided,  I  surpassed  them  in  volimae 
and  in  strength.  I  did  this,  and  the  clamorer  grew  still. 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  my  task  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
I  had  completed  the  eighth,  the  ninth,  and  the  tenth  tier.  I 
had  finished  a  portion  of  the  last  and  the  eleventh;  there 
remained  but  a  single  stone  to  be  fitted  and  plastered  in.  I 
struggled  with  its  weight;  I  placed  it  partially  in  its  destined 
position.  But  now  there  came  from  out  the  niche  a  low  laugh 
that  erected  the  hairs  upon  my  head.  It  was  succeeded  by  a 
sad  voice,  which  I  had  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  that  of  the 
noble  Fortunato.  The  voice  said  — 

*'Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  he!  he!  —  a  very  good  joke  indeed  —  an 
excellent  jest.  We  will  have  many  a  rich  laugh  about  it  at  the 
palazzo  —  he!  he!  he!  —  over  our  wine  —  he!  he!  he!'' 

"The  Amontillado!"  I  said. 

"He!  he!  he!  —  he!  he!  he!  —  yes,  the  Amontillado.  But  is 


174  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

it  not  getting  late?  Will  not  they  be  awaiting  us  at  the  palazzo, 
the  Lady  Fortunato  and  the  rest?  Let  us  be  gone." 

"Yes/'  I  said,  "let  us  be  gone/' 

^^For  the  love  of  God,  Moniresorl" 

"Yes/'  I  said,  "for  the  love  of  God!" 

But  to  these  words  I  hearkened  in  vain  for  a  reply.  I  grew 
impatient.   I  called  aloud  — 

"Fortunato!" 

No  answer.  I  called  again  — 

"Fortunato!" 

No  answer  still.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  remaining 
aperture  and  let  it  fall  within.  There  came  forth  in  return  only 
a  jingling  of  the  bells.  My  heart  grew  sick  —  on  account  of  the 
dampness  of  the  catacombs.  I  hastened  to  make  an  end  of  my 
labor.  I  forced  the  last  stone  into  its  position ;  I  plastered  it  up. 
Against  the  new  masonry  I  reerected  the  old  rampart  of  bones. 
For  the  half  of  a  century  no  mortal  has  disturbed  them.  In  pace 
requiescat!  ^ 

THE  PURLOINED  LETTERS 

"Nil  sapientiae  odiosius  acumine  nimio."^ 

—  Seneca. 

At  Paris,  just  after  dark  one  gusty  evening  in  the  autumn 
of  1 8 — ,  I  was  enjoying  the  twofold  luxury  of  meditation  and  a 
meerschaum,  in  company  with  my  friend  C.  Auguste  Dupin, 
in  his  little  back  library,  or  book-closet,  au  troisieme,  No.  jj 
Rue  Dunot,  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  For  one  hour  at  least  we 
had  maintained  a  profound  silence;  while  each,  to  any  casual 
observer,  might  have  seemed  intently  and  exclusively  occupied 
with  the  curling  eddies  of  smoke  that  oppressed  the  atmosphere 
of  the  chamber.  For  myself,  however,  I  was  mentally  discuss- 
ing certain  topics  which  had  formed  matter  for  conversation 
between  us  at  an  earlier  period  of  the  evening;  I  mean  the  affair 
of  the  Rue  Morgue,  and  the  mystery  attending  the  murder  of 
Marie  Roget.^  I  looked  upon  it,  therefore,  as  something  of  a 
coincidence,  when  the  door  of  our  apartment  was  thrown  open 

1  May  he  rest  in  peace!  '  Published  in  an  annual,  The  Gift,  1845. 

'  "Nothing  is  more  odious  to  wisdom  than  too  much  acumen." 

4  Cf .  "  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  "  and  "  The  Mystery  of  Marie  Rogfit." 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  175 

and  admitted  our  old  acquaintance,  Monsieur  G ,  the  Pre- 
fect of  the  Parisian  police. 

We  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome;  for  there  was  nearly  half  as 
much  of  the  entertaining  as  of  the  contemptible  about  the  man, 
and  we  had  not  seen  him  for  several  years.  We  had  been  sitting 
in  the  dark,  and  Dupin  now  arose  for  the  purpose  of  lighting  a 
lamp,  but  sat  down  again,  without  doing  so,  upon  G.'s  saying 
that  he  had  called  to  consult  us,  or  rather  to  ask  the  opinion  of 
my  friend,  about  some  official  business  which  had  occasioned 
a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

"If  it  is  any  point  requiring  reflection,"  observed  Dupin,  as 
he  forbore  to  enkindle  the  wick,  "we  shall  examine  it  to  better 
purpose  in  the  dark." 

"That  is  another  of  your  odd  notions,"  said  the  Prefect,  who 
had  a  fashion  of  calling  everything  "odd"  that  was  beyond  his 
comprehension,  and  thus  lived  amid  an  absolute  legion  of 
"oddities." 

"Very  true,"  said  Dupin,  as  he  supplied  his  visitor  with  a 
pipe,  and  rolled  towards  him  a  comfortable  chair. 

"And  what  is  the  difficulty  now?"  I  asked.  "Nothing  more 
in  the  assassination  way,  I  hope?" 

"Oh  no;  nothing  of  that  nature.  The  fact  is,  the  business  is 
'oery  simple  indeed,  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  we  can  manage  it 
sufficiently  well  ourselves;  but  then  I  thought  Dupin  w^ould 
like  to  hear  the  details  of  it,  because  it  is  so  excessively  odd." 

"Simple  and  odd,"  said  Dupin. 

"Why,  yes;  and  not  exactly  that  either.  The  fact  is,  we  have 
all  been  a  good  deal  puzzled  because  the  affair  is  so  simple,  and 
yet  baffles  us  altogether." 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  very  simplicity  of  the  thing  which  puts  you 
at  fault,"  said  my  friend. 

"What  nonsense  you  do  talk!"  replied  the  Prefect,  laughing 
heartily. 

"Perhaps  the  mystery  is  a  little  too  plain,"  said  Dupin. 

"Oh,  good  heavens!  whoever  heard  of  such  an  idea?" 

"A  little  too  self-evident." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  ho!  ho!  ho!"  roared  our  visi- 
tor, profoundly  amused,  "oh,  Dupin,  you  will  be  the  death  of 
me  yet!" 

"And  what,  after  all,  is  the  matter  on  hand?"  I  asked. 


176  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

"Why,  I  will  tell  you/'  replied  the  Prefect,  as  he  gave  a  long, 
steady,  and  contemplative  puff,  and  settled  himself  in  his  chair. 
"I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words;  but,  before  I  begin,  let  me 
caution  you  that  this  is  an  affair  demanding  the  greatest 
secrecy,  and  that  I  should  most  probably  lose  the  position  I 
now  hold  were  it  known  that  I  confided  it  to  any  one." 

"Proceed,"  said  I. 

"Or  not,"  said  Dupin. 

"Well,  then;  I  have  received  personal  information,  from  a 
very  high  quarter  that  a  certain  document  of  the  last  impor- 
tance has  been  purloined  from  the  royal  apartments.  The  indi- 
vidual who  purloined  it  is  known;  this  beyond  a  doubt;  he  was 
seen  to  take  it.  It  is  known,  also,  that  it  still  remains  in  his 
possession." 

"How  is  this  known?"  asked  Dupin. 

"It  is  clearly  inferred,"  replied  the  Prefect,  "from  the  nature 
of  the  document,  and  from  the  non-appearance  of  certain 
results  which  would  at  once  arise  from  its  passing  out  of  the 
robber's  possession;  —  that  is  to  say,  from  his  employing  it  as 
he  must  design  in  the  end  to  employ  it." 

"Be  a  little  more  explicit,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  may  venture  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  paper  gives  its 
holder  a  certain  power  in  a  certain  quarter  where  such  power 
is  immensely  valuable."  The  Prefect  was  fond  of  the  cant  of 
diplomacy. 

"*Still  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  said  Dupin. 

"No?  Well;  the  disclosure  of  the  document  to  a  third  per- 
son, who  shall  be  nameless,  would  bring  in  question  the  honor 
of  a  personage  of  most  exalted  station;  and  this  fact  gives  the 
holder  of  the  document  an  ascendency  over  the  illustrious  per- 
sonage whose  honor  and  peace  are  so  jeopardized." 

"But  this  ascendency,"  I  interposed,  "would  depend  upon 
the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowledge  of  the  robber. 
Who  would  dare  — " 

"The  thief,"  said  G ,  "is  the  Minister  D ,  who  dares 

all  things,  those  unbecoming  as  well  as  those  becoming  a  man. 
The  method  of  the  theft  was  not  less  ingenious  than  bold.  The 
document  in  question  —  a  letter,  to  be  frank  —  had  been 
received  by  the  personage  robbed  while  alone  in  the  royal 
botidoir.   During  its  perusal  she  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  177 

the  entrance  of  the  other  exalted  personage  from  whom  espe- 
cially it  was  her  wish  ta  conceal  it.  After  a  hurried  and  vain 
endeavor  to  thrust  it  in  a  drawer,  she  was  forced  to  place  it, 
open  as  it  was,  upon  a  table.  The  address,  however,  was  upper- 
most, and  the  contents  thus  unexposed,  the  letter  escaped 

notice.  At  this  juncture  enters  the  Minister  D .  His  lynx 

eye  immediately  perceives  the  paper,  recognizes  the  hand- 
writing of  the  address,  observes  the  confusion  of  the  personage 
addressed,  and  fathoms  her  secret.  After  some  business  trans- 
actions, hurried  through  in  his  ordinary  manner,  he  produces  a 
letter  somewhat  similar  to  the  one  in  question,  opens  it,  pretends 
to  read  it,  and  then  places  it  in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  other. 
Again  he  converses  for  some  fifteen  minutes  upon  the  public 
affairs.  At  length,  in  taking  leave,  he  takes  also  from  the  table 
the  letter  to  which  he  had  no  claim.  Its  rightful  owner  saw,  but 
of  course  dared  not  call  attention  to  the  act  in  the  presence  of 
the  third  personage,  who  stood  at  her  elbow.  The  minister 
decamped ;  leaving  his  own  letter  —  one  of  no  importance  — 
upon  the  table." 

"Here,  then,"  said  Dupin  to  me,  "you  have  precisely  what 
you  demand  to  make  the  ascendency  complete  —  the  robber's 
knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowledge  of  the  robber." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  prefect;  "and  the  power  thus  attained 
has,  for  some  months  past,  been  wielded  for  political  purposes 
to  a  very  dangerous  extent.  The  personage  robbed  is  more 
thoroughly  convinced  every  day  of  the  necessity  of  reclaiming 
her  letter.  But  this  of  course  cannot  be  done  openly.  In  fine, 
driven  to  despair,  she  has  committed  the  matter  to  me." 

"Than  whom,"  said  Dupin,  amid  a  perfect  whirlwind  of 
smoke,  "no  more  sagacious  agent  could,  I  suppose,  be  desired, 
or  even  imagined." 

"You  flatter  me,"  replied  the  Prefect;  "but  it  is  possible  that 
some  such  opinion  may  have  been  entertained." 

"It  is  clear,"  said  I,  "as  you  observe,  that  the  letter  is  still 
in  possession  of  the  minister;  since  it  is  this  possession,  and 
not  any  employment  of  the  letter,  which  bestows  the  power. 
With  the  employment  the  power  departs." 

"True,"  said  G ;  "and  upon  this  conviction  I  proceeded. 

My  first  care  was  to  make  thorough  search  of  the  minister's 
hotel;  and  here  my  chief  embarrassment  lay  in  the  necessity  of 


178  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

searching  without  his  knowledge.  Beyond  all  things,  I  have 
been  warned  of  the  danger  which  would  result  from  giving  him 
reason  to  suspect  our  design." 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  are  quite  au  fait  in  these  investigations. 
The  Parisian  police  have  done  this  thing  often  before." 

"O  yes;  and  for  this  reason  I  did  not  despair.  The  habits  of 
the  minister  gave  me,  too,  a  great  advantage.  He  is  frequently 
absent  from  home  all  night.  His  servants  are  by  no  means 
numerous.  They  sleep  at  a  distance  from  their  master's  apart- 
ment, and  being  chiefly  NeapoHtans,  are  readily  made  drunk. 
I  have  keys,  as  you  know,  with  which  I  can  open  any  chamber 
or  cabinet  in  Paris.  For  three  months  a  night  has  not  passed, 
during  the  greater  part  of  which  I  have  not  been  engaged, 
personally,  in  ransacking  the  D H6tel.  My  honor  is  inter- 
ested, and,  to  mention  a  great  secret,  the  reward  is  enormous. 
So  I  did  not  abandon  the  search  until  I  had  become  fully  satis- 
fied that  the  thief  is  a  more  astute  man  than  myself.  I  fancy 
that  I  have  investigated  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  premises 
in  which  it  is  possible  that  the  paper  can  be  concealed." 

"But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  suggested,  "that  although  the 
letter  may  be  in  possession  of  the  minister,  as  it  unquestionably 
is,  he  may  have  concealed  it  elsewhere  than  upon  his  own 
premises?  " 

"This  is  barely  possible,"  said  Dupin.  " The  present  peculiar 
condition  of  affairs  at  court,  and  especially  of  those  intrigues  in 

which  D is  known  to  be  involved,  would  render  the  instant 

availability  of  the  document  —  its  susceptibility  of  being  pro- 
duced at  a  moment's  notice  —  a  point  of  nearly  equal  impor- 
tance with  its  possession." 

"Its  susceptibiHty  of  being  produced?"  said  I. 

"That  is  to  say  of  being  destroyed''  said  Dupin. 

"True,"  I  observed;  "the  paper  is  clearly  then  upon  the 
premises.  As  for  its  being  upon  the  person  of  the  minister,  we 
may  consider  that  as  out  of  the  question." 

"Entirely,"  said  the  Prefect.  "He  has  been  twice  waylaid, 
as  if  by  footpads,  and  his  person  rigorously  searched  under  my 
own  inspection." 

"You  might  have  spared  yourself  this  trouble,"  said  Dupin. 

"D ,  I  presume,  is  not  altogether  a  fool,  and,  if  not,  must 

have  anticipated  these  waylayings  as  a  matter  of  course." 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  179 

"Not  altogether  a  fool/'  said  G ;  "but  then  he's  a  poet, 

which  I  take  to  be  only  one  remove  from  a  fool." 

"True,"  said  Dupin,  after  a  long  and  thoughtful  whiff  from 
his  meerschaum,  "although  I  have  been  guilty  of  certain 
doggerel  myself." 

"Suppose  you  detail,"  said  I,  "the  particulars  of  your 
search." 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  we  took  our  time,  and  we  searched  every- 
where. I  have  had  long  experience  in  these  affairs.  I  took 
the  entire  building,  room  by  room;  devoting  the  nights  of  a 
whole  week  to  each.  We  examined,  first,  the  furniture  of  each 
apartment.  We  opened  every  possible  drawer;  and  I  presume 
you  know  that,  to  a  properly  trained  police-agent,  such  a  thing 
as  a  secret  drawer  is  impossible.  Any  man  is  a  dolt  who  per- 
mits a  'secret'  drawer  to  escape  him  in  a  search  of  this  kind. 
The  thing  is  so  plain.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  bulk  —  of 
space  —  to  be  accounted  for  in  every  cabinet.  Then  we  have 
accurate  rules.  The  fiftieth  part  of  a  line  could  not  escape  us. 
After  the  cabinets  we  took  the  chairs.  The  cushions  we  probed 
with  the  fine  long  needles  you  have  seen  me  employ.  From  the 
tables  we  removed  the  tops." 

"Why  so?" 

"Sometimes  the  top  of  a  table,  or  other  similarly  arranged 
piece  of  furniture,  is  removed  by  the  person  wishing  to  con- 
ceal an  article;  then  the  leg  is  excavated,  the  article  deposited 
within  the  cavity,  and  the  top  replaced.  The  bottoms  and  tops 
of  bedposts  are  employed  in  the  same  way." 

"But  could  not  the  cavity  be  detected  by  sounding?"  I 
asked: 

"By  no  means,  if,  when  the  article  is  deposited,  a  sufficient 
wadding  of  cotton  be  placed  around  it.  Besides,  in  our  case, 
we  were  obliged  to  proceed  without  noise." 

"But  you  could  not  have  removed  —  you  could  not  have 
taken  to  pieces  all  articles  of  furniture  in  which  it  would  have 
been  possible  to  make  a  deposit  in  the  manner  you  mention. 
A  letter  may  be  compressed  into  a  thin  spiral  roll,  not  differing 
much  in  shape  or  bulk  from  a  large  knitting-needle,  and  in  this 
form  it  might  be  inserted  into  the  rung  of  a  chair,  for  example. 
You  did  not  take  to  pieces  all  the  chairs?" 

"Certainly  not;  but  we  did  better  —  we  examined  the  rungs 


i8o  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

of  every  chair  in  the  hotel,  and,  indeed,  the  jointings  of  every 
description  of  furniture,  by  the  aid  of  a  most  powerful  micro- 
scope. Had  there  been  any  traces  of  recent  disturbance  we 
should  not  have  failed  to  detect  it  instantly.  A  single  grain 
of  gimlet-dust,  for  example,  would  have  been  as  obvious  as  an 
apple.  Any  disorder  in  the  glueing  —  any  unusual  gaping  in 
the  joints  —  would  have  sufficed  to  insure  detection." 

"I  presume  you  looked  to  the  mirrors,  between  the  boards 
and  the  plates,  and  you  probed  the  beds  and  the  bedclothes,  as 
well  as  the  curtains  and  carpets." 

"That  of  course;  and  when  we  had  absolutely  completed 
every  particle  of  the  furniture  in  this  way,  then  we  examined 
the  house  itself.  We  divided  its  entire  surface  into  compart- 
ments, which  we  numbered,  so  that  none  might  be  missed; 
then  we  scrutinized  each  individual  square  inch  throughout  the 
premises,  including  the  two  houses  immediately  adjoining,  with 
the  microscope,  as  before." 

"  The  two  houses  adjoining?  "  I  exclaimed ;  "  you  must  have 
had  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"We  had;  but  the  reward  offered  is  prodigious." 

"You  include  the  grounds  about  the  houses?" 

"All  the  grounds  are  paved  with  brick.  They  gave  us  com- 
paratively little  trouble.  We  examined  the  moss  between  the 
bricks,  and  found  it  undisturbed." 

"You  looked  among  D 's  papers,  of  course,  and  into  the 

books  of  the  library?  " 

"Certainly;  we  opened  every  package  and  parcel;  we  not 
only  opened  every  book,  but  we  turned  over  every  leaf  in  each 
volume,  not  contenting  ourselves  with  a  mere  shake,  according 
to  the  fashion  of  some  of  our  police-officers.  We  also  measured 
the  thickness  of  every  hodk.-cover,  with  the  most  accurate 
admeasurement,  and  applied  to  each  the  most  jealous  scrutiny 
of  the  microscope.  Had  any  of  the  bindings  been  recently  med- 
dled with,  it  would  have  been  utterly  impossible  that  the 
fact  should  have  escaped  observation.  Some  five  or  six  vol- 
umes, just  from  the  hands  of  the  binder,  we  carefully  probed, 
longitudinally,  with  the  needles." 

"You  explored  the  floors  beneath  the  carpets?" 

"Beyond  doubt.  We  removed  every  carpet,  and  examined 
the  boards  with  the  microscope." 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  i8i 

"And  the  paper  on  the  walls?"  .  • 

"Yes.'^ 

"You  looked  into  the  cellars?" 

"We  did." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "you  have  been  making  a  miscalculation, 
and  the  letter  is  not  upon  the  premises,  as  you  suppose." 

"I  fear  you  are  right  there,"  said  the  Prefect.  "And  now, 
Dupin,  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do?" 

"To  make  a  thorough  re-search  of  the  premises." 

"That  is  absolutely  needless,"  replied  G .    "I  am  not 

more  sure  that  I  breathe  than  I  am  that  the  letter  is  not  at  the 
hotel." 

"I  have  no  better  advice  to  give  you,"  said  Dupin.  "You 
have,  of  course,  an  accurate  description  of  the  letter?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  —  And  here  the  Prefect,  producing  a  memoran- 
dum-book, proceeded  to  read  aloud  a  minute  account  of  the 
internal,  and  especially  of  the  external  appearance  of  the  miss- 
ing document.  Soon  after  finishing  the  perusal  of  this  descrip- 
tion, he  took  his  departure,  more  entirely  depressed  in  spirits 
than  I  had  ever  known  the  good  gentleman  before. 

In  about  a  month  afterwards  he  paid  us  another  visit,  and 
found  us  occupied  very  nearly  as  before.  He  took  a  pipe  and 
a  chair  and  entered  into  some  ordinary  conversation.  At  length 
I  said: 

"Well,  but  G ,  what  of  the  purloined  letter?  I  presume 

you  have  at  last  made  up  your  mind  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  overreaching  the  minister?" 

"Confound  him,  say  I  —  yes;  I  made  the  re-examination, 
however,  as  Dupin  suggested  —  but  it  was  all  labor  lost,  as  I 
knew  it  would  be." 

''How  much  was  the  reward  offered,  did  you  say?"  asked 
Dupin. 

"Why,  a  very  great  deal  —  a  very  Uberal  reward  —  I  don't 
like  to  say  how  much,  precisely;  but  one  thing  I  will  say,  that  I 
would  n't  mind  giving  my  individual  check  for  fifty  thousand 
francs  to  any  one  who  could  obtain  me  that  letter.  The  fact  is, 
it  is  becoming  of  more  and  more  importance  every  day;  and 
the  reward  has  been  lately  doubled.  If  it  were  trebled,  how- 
ever, I  could  do  no  more  than  I  have  done." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Dupin,  drawlingly,  between  the  whiffs  of 


i82  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

his  meerschaum,  "I  really  —  think,  G ,  you  have  not  ex- 
erted yourself  —  to  the  utmost  in  this  matter.  You  might  — 
do  a  little  more,  I  think,  eh? " 

^'How?  —  in  what  way?" 

"Why  —  puff,  puff  —  you  might  —  puff,  puff  —  employ 
counsel  in  the  matter,  eh?  —  puff,  puff,  puff.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  story  they  tell  of  Abernethy?"  ^ 

"No;  hang  Abernethy!'' 

"To  be  sure!  hang  him  and  welcome.  But,  once  upon  a 
time,  a  certain  rich  miser  conceived  the  design  of  sponging 
upon  this  Abernethy  for  a  medical  opinion.  Getting  up,  for 
this  purpose,  an  ordinary  conversation  in  a  private  company, 
he  insinuated  the  case  to  his  physician  as  that  of  an  imaginary 
individual. 

"'We  will  suppose,'  said  the  miser,  *that  his  symptoms  are 
such  and  such;  now,  doctor,  what  would  you  have  directed 
him  to  take?' 

"'Take!'  said  Abernethy,  'why,  take  advice,  to  be  sure.'" 

"But,"  said  the  Prefect,  a  Uttle  discomposed,"/  am  per- 
fectly  willing  to  take  advice,  and  to  pay  for  it.  I  would  really 
give  fifty  thousand  francs  to  any  who  would  aid  me  in  the 
matter." 

"In  that  case,"  replied  Dupin,  opening  a  drawer,  and  pro- 
ducing a  check-book,  "you  may  as  well  fill  me  up  a  check  for 
the  amount  mentioned.  When  you  have  signed  it,  I  will  hand 
you  the  letter." 

I  was  astounded.  The  Prefect  appeared  absolutely  thunder- 
stricken.  For  some  minutes  he  remained  speechless  and  mo- 
tionless, looking  incredulously  at  my  friend  with  open  mouth, 
and  eyes  that  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets;  then,  appar- 
ently recovering  himself  in  some  measure,  he  seized  a  pen,  and 
after  several  pauses  and  vacant  stares,  finally  filled  up  and 
signed  a  check  for  fifty  thousand  francs,  and  handed  it  across 
the  table  to  Dupin.  The  latter  examined  it  carefully  and  de- 
posited it  in  his  pocket-book;  then,  unlocking  an  escritoire,  took 
thence  a  letter  and  gave  it  to  the  Prefect.  This  functionary 
grasped  it  in  a  perfect  agony  of  joy,  opened  it  with  a  trembling 
hand,  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  its  contents,  and  then  scrambling 
and  struggling  to  the  door,  rushed  at  length  unceremoniously 
*  John  Abernethy  (i  764-1831),  a  distinguished  London  surgeon. 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  183 

from  the  room  and  from  the  house,  without  having  uttered  a 
syllable  since  Dupin  had  requested  him  to  fill  up  the  check. 

When  he  had  gone  my  friend  entered  into  some  explanations. 

"The  Parisian  police,"  he  said,  "are  exceedingly  able  in  their 
way.  They  are  persevering,  ingenious,  cunning,  and  thoroughly 
versed  in  the  knowledge  which  their  duties  seem  chiefly  to 
demand.  Thus,  when  G detailed  to  us  his  mode  of  search- 
ing the  premises  at  the  Hotel  D ,  I  felt  entire  confidence 

in  his  having  made  a  satisfactory  investigation  —  so  far  as  his 
labors  extended." 

"So  far  as  his  labors  extended?"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  Dupin.  "The  measures  adopted  were  not  only 
the  best  of  their  kind,  but  carried  out  to  absolute  perfection. 
Had  the  letter  been  deposited  within  the  range  of  their  search, 
these  fellows  would,  beyond  question,  have  found  it." 

I  merely  laughed,  but  he  seemed  quite  serious  in  all  that  he 
said. 

"The  measures,  then,"  he  continued,  "were  good  in  their 
kind,  and  well  executed;  their  defect  lay  in  their  being  inap- 
plicable to  the  case,  and  to  the  man.  A  certain  set  of  highly- 
ingenious  resources  are  with  the  Prefect  a  sort  of  Procrustean 
bed,  to  which  he  forcibly  adapts  his  designs.  But  he  perpetu- 
ally errs  by  being  too  deep  or  too  shallow  for  the  matter  in 
hand,  and  many  a  schoolboy  is  a  better  reasoner  than  he.  I 
knew  one  about  eight  years  of  age,  whose  success  at  guessing 
in  the  game  of  '  even  and  odd '  attracted  universal  admiration. 
This  game  is  simple,  and  is  played  with  marbles.  One  player 
holds  in  his  hand  a  number  of  these  toys,  and  demands  of 
another  whether  that  number  is  even  or  odd.  If  the  guess  is 
right  the  guesser  wins  one,  if  wrong,  he  loses  one.  The  boy  to 
whom  I  allude  won  all  the  marbles  of  the  school.  Of  course  he 
had  some  principle  of  guessing,  and  this  lay  in  mere  observa- 
tion and  admeasurement  of  the  astuteness  of  his  opponents. 
For  example,  an  arrant  simpleton  is  his  opponent,  and  holding 
up  his  closed  hand  asks,  *  are  they  even  or  odd? '  Our  schoolboy 
repUes  'odd,'  and  loses,  but  upon  the  second  trial  he  wins,  for 
he  then  says  to  himself,  Hhe  simpleton  had  them  even  upon  the 
first  trial,  and  his  amount  of  cunning  is  just  sufficient  to  make 
him  have  them  odd  upon  the  second,  I  will  therefore  guess 
odd^;  he  guesses  odd,  and  wins.     Now,  with  a  simpleton  a 


i84  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

degree  above  the  first  he  would  have  reasoned  thus:  *This  fel- 
low finds  that  in  the  first  instance  I  guessed  odd,  and  in  the 
second  he  will  propose  to  himself  upon  the  first  impulse,  a 
simple  variation  from  even  to  odd,  as  did  the  first  simpleton, 
but  then  a  second  thought  will  suggest  that  this  is  too  simple 
a  variation,  and  finally  he  will  decide  upon  putting  it  even  as 
before.  I  will  therefore  guess  even';  he  guesses  even,  and  wins. 
Now,  this  mode  of  reasoning  in  the  schoolboy,  whom  his  fel- 
lows termed  'lucky,'  what  in  its  last  analysis  is  it?" 

*'It  is  merely,"  I  said,  "an  identification  of  the  reasoner's 
intellect  with  that  of  his  opponent." 

"It  is,"  said  Dupin,  "and  upon  inquiring  of  the  boy  by 
what  means  he  effected  the  thorough  identification  in  which 
his  success  consisted,  I  received  answer  as  follows:  'When 
I  wish  to  find  out  how  wise,  or  how  stupid,  or  how  good,  or 
how  wicked  is  any  one,  or  what  are  his  thoughts  at  the  moment, 
I  fashion  the  expression  of  my  face  as  accurately  as  possible 
in  accordance  with  the  expression  of  his,  and  then  wait  to 
see  what  thoughts  or  sentiments  arise  in  my  mind  or  heart, 
as  if  to  match  or  correspond  with  the  expression.'  This  re- 
sponse of  the  schoolboy  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  spurious 
profundity  which  has  been  attributed  to  Rochefoucauld,  to  La 
Bruyere,  to  Machiavelli,  and  to  Campanella." 

"And  the  identification,"  I  said,  "of  the  reasoner's  intellect 
with  that  of  his  opponent  depends,  if  I  understand  you  aright, 
upon  the  accuracy  with  which  the  opponent's  intellect  is  ad- 
measured." 

"For  its  practical  value  it  depends  upon  this,"  repHed  Dupin; 
"and  the  Prefect  and  his  cohort  fail  so  frequently,  first,  by 
default  of  this  identification,  and  secondly,  by  ill-admeasure- 
ment, or  rather  through  non-admeasurement  of  the  intellect 
with  which  they  are  engaged.  They  consider  only  their  own 
ideas  of  ingenuity;  and  in  searching  for  anything  hidden, 
advert  only  to  the  modes  in  which  they  would  have  hidden  it. 
They  are  right  in  this  much  —  that  their  own  ingenuity  is  a 
faithful  representative  of  that  of  the  mass;  but  when  the  cun- 
ning of  the  individual  felon  is  diverse  in  character  from  their 
own,  the  felon  foils  them  of  course.  This  always  happens  when 
it  is  above  their  own,  and  very  usually  when  it  is  below.  They 
have  no  variation  of  principle  in  their  investigations;  at  best, 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  185 

when  urged  by  some  unusual  emergency,  by  some  extraordinary 
reward,  they  extend  or  exaggerate  their  old  modes  of  practice ^ 
without  touching  their  principles.   What,  for  example,  in  this 

case  of  D has  been  done  to  vary  the  principle  of  action? 

What  is  all  this  boring,  and  probing,  and  sounding,  and  scru- 
tinizing with  the  microscope,  and  dividing  the  surface  of  the 
building  into  registered  square  inches  —  what  is  it  all  but  an 
exaggeration  of  the  application  of  the  one  principle  or  set  of 
principles  of  search,  which  are  based  upon  the  one  set  of 
notions  regarding  human  ingenuity,  to  which  the  Prefect  in  the 
long  routine  of  his  duty  has  been  accustomed?  Do  you  not 
see  he  has  taken  it  for  granted  that  all  men  proceed  to  conceal 
a  letter  —  not  exactly  in  a  gimlet-hole  bored  in  a  chair-leg  — 
but,  at  least,  in  some  out-of-the-way  hole  or  corner  suggested 
by  the  same  tenor  of  thought  which  would  urge  a  man  to  secrete 
a  letter  in  a  gimlet-hole  bored  in  a  chair-leg?  And  do  you  not 
see  also  that  such  recherches  nooks  for  concealment  are  adapted 
only  for  ordinary  occasions,  and  would  be  adopted  only  by 
ordinary  intellects,  for,  in  all  cases  of  concealment,  a  disposal 
of  the  article  concealed,  a  disposal  of  it  in  this  recherche  man- 
ner, is  in  the  very  first  instance  presumable  and  presumed,  and 
thus  its  discover>^  depends,  not  at  all  upon  the  acumen,  but 
altogether  upon  the  mere  care,  patience,  and  determination  of 
the  seekers,  and  where  the  case  is  of  importance,  or  what 
amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  the  policial  eyes,  when  the 
reward  is  of  magnitude,  the  qualities  in  question  have  neroer 
been  known  to  fail?  You  will  now  understand  what  I  meant 
in  suggesting  that  had  the  purloined  letter  been  hidden  any- 
where within  the  Hmits  of  the  Prefect's  examination  —  in  other 
words,  had  the  principle  of  its  concealment  been  comprehended 
within  the  principles  of  the  Prefect  —  its  discovery  would  have 
been  a  matter  altogether  beyond  question.  This  functionary, 
however,  has  been  thoroughly  mystified,  and  the  remote  source 
of  his  defeat  Kes  in  the  supposition  that  the  Minister  is  a  fool 
because  he  has  acquired  renown  as  a  poet.  All  fools  are  poets, 
this  the  Prefect /6e/5,  and  he  is  merely  guilty  of  a  non  distributio 
medii  ^  in  thence  inferring  that  all  poets  are  fools.'' 

"But  is  this  really  the  poet?"  I  asked.  "There  are  two 
brothers,  I  know,  and  both  have  attained  reputation  in  letters. 

*  A  certain  type  of  error  in  logic,  —  the  "fallacy  of  the  undistributed  middle." 


i86  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  minister,  I  believe,  has  written  learnedly  on  the  Differen- 
tial Calculus.  He  is  a  mathematician  and  no  poet." 

"You  are  mistaken;  I  know  him  well;  he  is  both.  As  poet 
and  mathematician  he  would  reason  well;  as  mere  mathema- 
tician he  could  not  have  reasoned  at  all,  and  thus  would  have 
been  at  the  mercy  of  the  Prefect." 

"You  surprise  me,"  I  said,  "by  these  opinions,  which  have 
been  contradicted  by  the  voice  of  the  world.  You  do  not  mean 
to  set  at  naught  the  well-digested  idea  of  centuries.  The  mathe- 
matical reason  has  long  been  regarded  as  the  reason  par 
excellence. ^^ 

*'^Il  y  a  a  parier/^'  replied  Dupin,  quoting  from  Chamfort,^ 
"'^we  toute  idee  publique,  toute  convention  reque,  est  une  sottise, 
car  elle  a  convenu  au  plus  grand  nomhreJ  The  mathematicians, 
I  grant  you,  have  done  their  best  to  promulgate  the  popular 
error  to  which  you  allude,  and  which  is  none  the  less  an  error 
for  its  promulgation  as  truth.  With  an  art  worthy  a  better 
cause,  for  example,  they  have  insinuated  the  term  'analysis* 
into  application  to  algebra.  The  French  are  the  originators  of 
this  particular  deception,  but  if  a  term  is  of  any  importance,  if 
words  derive  any  value  from  applicability,  then  '  analysis '  con- 
veys 'algebra'  about  as  much  as,  in  Latin,  ^ ambitus^  implies 
'ambition,'  ^religio,^  *  religion,'  or  ^homines  honesti,^  a  set  of 
honorable  men." 

"You  have  a  quarrel  on  hand,  I  see,"  said  I,  "with  some  of 
the  algebraists  of  Paris  —  but  proceed." 

"I  dispute  the  availabihty,  and  thus  the  value  of  that  reason 
which  is  cultivated  in  any  especial  form  other  than  the  ab- 
stractly logical.  I  dispute  in  particular  the  reason  educed  by 
mathematical  study.  The  mathematics  are  the  science  of  form 
and  quantity,  mathematical  reasoning  is  merely  logic  applied 
to  observation  upon  form  and  quantity.  The  great  error  lies 
in  supposing  that  even  the  truths  of  what  is  called  pure  algebra 
are  abstract  or  general  truths.  And  this  error  is  so  egregious 
that  I  am  confounded  at  the  universality  with  which  it  has 
been  received.  Mathematical  axioms  are  not  axioms  of  general 
truth.   What  is  true  of  relation  —  of  form  and  quantity  —  is 

1  S^bastien  Roch  Nicolas  Chamfort  (i 741-1794),  a  French  writer.  "It  is  a 
good  wager  that  every  public  idea,  every  accepted  convention,  is  folly,  because  it 
has  been  agreeable  to  the  majority." 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  187 

often  grossly  false  in  regard  to  morals,  for  example.  Li  this 
latter  science  it  is  very  usually  untrue  that  the  aggregated 
parts  are  equal  to  the  whole.  In  chemistry  also  the  axiom  fails. 
In  the  consideration  of  motive  it  fails,  for  two  motives,  each  of 
a  given  value,  have  not  necessarily  a  value  when  united  equal 
to  the  sum  of  their  values  apart.  There  are  numerous  other 
mathematical  truths  which  are  only  truths  within  the  limits  of 
relation.  But  the  mathematician  argues  from  his  finite  truths, 
through  habit,  as  if  they  were  of  an  absolutely  general  appli- 
cability —  as  the  world  indeed  imagines  them  to  be.  Bryant,^ 
in  his  very  learned  Mythology,  mentions  an  analogous  source 
of  error,  when  he  says  that '  although  the  Pagan  fables  are  not 
beheved,  yet  we  forget  ourselves  continually,  and  make  infer- 
ences from  them  as  existing  realities.'  With  the  algebraists, 
however,  who  are  Pagans  themselves,  the  *  Pagan  fables'  are 
believed,  and  the  inferences  are  made,  not  so  much  through 
lapse  of  memory  as  through  an  unaccountable  addling  of  the 
brains.  In  short,  I  never  yet  encountered  the  mere  mathema- 
tician who  could  be  trusted  out  of  equal  roots,  or  one  who  did 
not  clandestinely  hold  it  as  a  point  of  his  faith  that  x^  4-  px  was 
absolutely  and  unconditionally  equal  to  q.  Say  to  one  of  these 
gentlemen,  by  way  of  experiment,  if  you  please,  that  you 
believe  occasions  may  occur  where  x^  +  px  is  not  altogether 
equal  to  q,  and  having  made  him  understand  what  you  mean, 
get  out  of  his  reach  as  speedily  as  convenient,  for  beyond 
doubt  he  will  endeavor  to  knock  you  down. 

^'I  mean  to  say,"  continued  Dupin,  while  I  merely  laughed 
at  his  last  observations,  "  that  if  the  minister  had  been  no  more 
than  a  mathematician,  the  Prefect  would  have  been  under  no 
necessity  of  giving  me  this  check.  I  knew  him,  however,  as 
both  mathematician  and  poet,  and  my  measures  were  adapted 
to  his  capacity,  with  reference  to  the  circumstances  by  which  he 
was  surrounded.  I  knew  him  as  a  courtier,  too,  and  as  a  bold 
intrigant.  Such  a  man,  I  considered,  could  not  fail  to  be 
aware  of  the  ordinary  policial  modes  of  action.  He  could  not 
have  failed  to  anticipate  —  and  events  have  proved  that  he  did 
not  fail  to  anticipate  —  the  waylayings  to  which  he  was  sub- 
jected. He  must  have  foreseen,  I  reflected,  the  secret  investi- 
gations of  his  premises.  His  frequent  absences  from  home  at 
*  Jacob  Bryant,  an  eighteenth-century  antiquary. 


i88  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

night,  which  were  hailed  by  the  Prefect  as  certain  aids  to  his 
success,  I  regarded  only  as  ruses,  to  afford  opportunity  for 
thorough  search  to  the  police,  and  thus  the  sooner  to  impress 
them  with  the  conviction  to  which  G— — ,  in  fact,  did  finally 
arrive  —  the  conviction  that  the  letter  was  not  upon  the  prem- 
ises. I  felt,  also,  that  the  whole  train  of  thought  which  I  was 
at  some  pains  in  detaiUng  to  you  just  now,  concerning  the 
invariable  principle  of  policial  action  in  searches  for  articles 
concealed  —  I  felt  that  this  whole  train  of  thought  would 
necessarily  pass  through  the  mind  of  the  minister.  It  would 
imperatively  lead  him  to  despise  all  the  ordinary  nooks  of  con- 
cealment. He  could  not,  I  reflected,  be  so  weak  as  not  to  see 
that  the  most  intricate  and  remote  recess  of  his  hotel  would  be 
as  open  as  his  commonest  closets  to  the  eyes,  to  the  probes, 
to  the  gimlets,  and  to  the  microscopes  of  the  Prefect.  I  saw, 
in  fine,  that  he  would  be  driven,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  sim- 
plicity, if  not  deliberately  induced  to  it  as  a  matter  of  choice. 
You  will  remember,  perhaps,  how  desperately  the  Prefect 
laughed  when  I  suggested,  upon  our  first  interview,  that  it  was 
just  possible  this  mystery  troubled  him  so  much  on  account 
of  its  being  so  very  self-evident." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "I  remember  his  merriment  well.  I  really 
thought  he  would  have  fallen  into  convulsions." 

"The  material  world,"  continued  Dupin,  "abounds  with 
very  strict  analogies  to  the  immaterial ;  and  thus  some  color  of 
truth  has  been  given  to  the  rhetorical  dogma  that  metaphor  or 
simile  may  be  made  to  strengthen  an  argument  as  well  as  to 
embellish  a  description.  The  principle  of  the  vis  inertioe,  for 
example,  seems  to  be  identical  in  physics  and  metaphysics.  It 
is  not  more  true  in  the  former  that  a  large  body  is  with  more 
difficulty  set  in  motion  than  a  smaller  one,  and  that  its  subse- 
quent momentum  is  commensurate  with  this  diflEiculty,  than  it 
is,  in  the  latter,  that  intellects  of  the  vaster  capacity,  while 
more  forcible,  more  constant,  and  more  eventful  in  their  move- 
ments than  those  of  inferior  grade,  are  yet  the  less  readily 
moved,  and  more  embarrassed  and  full  of  hesitation  in  the  first 
few  steps  of  their  progress.  Again;  have  you  ever  noticed 
which  of  the  street  signs  over  the  shop-doors  are  the  most 
attractive  of  attention?" 

"I  have  never  given  the  matter  a  thought,"  I  said. 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  189 

"There  is  a  game  of  puzzles,"  he  resumed,  "which  is  played 
upon  a  map.  One  party  playing  requires  another  to  find  a 
given  word  —  the  name  of  town,  river,  state,  or  empire  —  any 
word,  in  short,  upon  the  motley  and  perplexed  surface  of  the 
chart.  A  novice  in  the  game  generally  seeks  to  embarrass  his 
opponents  by  giving  them  the  most  minutely  lettered  names, 
but  the  adept  selects  such  words  as  stretch,  in  large  characters, 
from  one  end  of  the  chart  to  the  other.  These,  like  the  over- 
largely  lettered  signs  and  placards  of  the  street,  escape  obser- 
vation by  dint  of  being  excessively  obvious;  and  here  the 
physical  oversight  is  precisely  analogous  with  the  moral  inap- 
prehension  by  which  the  intellect  suffers  to  pass  unnoticed 
those  considerations  which  are  too  obtrusively  and  too  j)alpably 
self-evident.  But  this  is  a  point,  it  appears,  somewhat  above  or 
beneath  the  understanding  of  the  Prefect.  He  never  once 
thought  it  probable,  or  possible,  that  the  minister  had  de- 
posited the  letter  immediately  beneath  the  nose  of  the  whole 
world,  by  way  of  best  preventing  any  portion  of  that  world 
from  perceiving  it. 

"But  the  more  I  reflected  upon  the  daring,  dashing,  and  dis- 
criminating ingenuity  of  D ;  upon  the  fact  that  the  docu- 
ment must  always  have  been  at  hand  if  he  intended  to  use  it 
to  good  purpose;  and  upon  the  decisive  evidence,  obtained 
by  the  Prefect,  that  it  was  not  hidden  within  the  Umits  of  that 
dignitary's  ordinary  search  —  the  more  satisfied  I  became  that, 
to  conceal  this  letter,  the  minister  had  resorted  to  the  compre- 
hensive and  sagacious  expedient  of  not  attempting  to  conceal  it 
at  all. 

"Full  of  these  ideas,  I  prepared  myself  with  a  pair  of  green 
spectacles,  and  called  one  fine  morning,  quite  by  accident,  at 
the  ministerial  hotel.  I  found  D at  home,  yawning,  loung- 
ing, and  dawdling,  as  usual,  and  pretending  to  be  in  the  last 
extremity  of  ennui.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  most  really  energetic 
human  being  now  alive  —  but  that  is  only  when  nobody  sees 
him. 

"To  be  even  with  him,  I  complained  of  my  weak  eyes,  and 
lamented  the  necessity  of  the  spectacles,  under  cover  of  which 
I  cautiously  and  thoroughly  surveyed  the  whole  apartment, 
while  seemingly  intent  only  upon  the  conversation  of  my  host. 

"I  paid  especial  attention  to  a  large  writing- table  near  which 


igo  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

he  sat,  and  upon  which  lay  confusedly  some  miscellaneous  let- 
ters and  other  papers,  with  one  or  two  musical  instruments  and 
a  few  books.  Here,  however,  after  a  long  and  very  deliberate 
scrutiny,  I  saw  nothing  to  excite  particular  suspicion. 

"At  length  my  eyes,  in  going  the  circuit  of  the  room,  fell 
upon  a  trumpery  filigree  card-rack  of  pasteboard  that  hung 
danghng  by  a  dirty  blue  ribbon  from  a  Httle  brass  knob  just 
beneath  the  middle  of  the  mantelpiece.  In  this  rack,  which 
had  three  or  four  compartments,  were  five  or  six  visiting  cards 
and  a  solitary  letter.  This  last  was  much  soiled  and  crumpled. 
It  was  torn  nearly  in  two,  across  the  middle  —  as  if  a  design,  in 
the  first  instance,  to  tear  it  entirely  up  as  worthless,  had  been 
altered,  or  stayed,  in  the  second.  It  had  a  large  black  seal, 
bearing  the  D cipher  Dery  conspicuously,  and  was  ad- 
dressed, in  a  diminutive  female  hand,  to  D ,  the  minister, 

himself.  It  was  thrust  carelessly,  and  even,  as  it  seemed,  con- 
temptuously, into  one  of  the  uppermost  divisions  of  the  rack. 

"  No  sooner  had  I  glanced  at  this  letter  than  I  concluded  it 
to  be  that  of  which  I  was  in  search.  To  be  sure,  it  was  to  all 
appearance  radically  different  from  the  one  of  which  the 
Prefect  had  read  us  so  minute  a  description.    Here  the  seal 

was  large  and  black,  with  the  D cipher;  there  it  was  small 

and  red,  with  the  ducal  arms  of  the  S family.   Here  the 

address,  to  the  minister,  was  diminutive  and  feminine;  there 
the  superscription,  to  a  certain  royal  personage,  was  markedly 
bold  and  decided;  the  size  alone  formed  a  point  of  correspond- 
ence. But,  then,  the  radicalness  of  these  differences,  which  was 
excessive;  the  dirt;  the  soiled  and  torn  condition  of  the  paper, 

so  inconsistent  with  the  true  methodical  habits  of  D ,  and 

so  suggestive  of  a  design  to  delude  the  beholder  into  an  idea 
of  the  worthlessness  of  the  document;  these  things,  together 
with  the  hyper-obtrusive  situation  of  this  document,  full  in 
the  view  of  every  visitor,  and  thus  exactly  in  accordance  with 
the  conclusions  to  which  I  had  previously  arrived:  these 
things,  I  say,  were  strongly  corroborative  of  suspicion  in  one 
who  came  with  the  intention  to  suspect. 

*'I  protracted  my  visit  as  long  as  possible,  and  while  I  main- 
tained a  most  animated  discussion  with  the  minister  upon 
a  topic  which  I  knew  well  had  never  failed  to  interest  and 
excite  him,  I  kept  my  attention  really  riveted  upon  the  letter^ 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER  191 

In  this  examination  I  committed  to  memory  its  external 
appearance  and  arrangement  in  the  rack;  and  also  fell,  at 
length,  upon  a  discovery  which  set  at  rest  whatever  trivial 
doubt  I  might  have  entertained.  In  scrutinizing  the  edges  of 
the  paper  I  observed  them  to  be  more  chafed  than  seemed 
necessary.  They  presented  the  broken  appearance  which  is 
manifested  when  a  stiff  paper,  having  been  once  folded  and 
pressed  with  a  folder,  is  refolded  in  a  reversed  direction,  in  the 
same  creases  or  edges  which  had  formed  the  original  fold. 
This  discovery  was  sufficient.  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the 
letter  had  been  turned  as  a  glove,  inside  out,  re-directed  and 
re-sealed.  I  bade  the  minister  good  morning  and  took  my 
departure  at  once,  leaving  a  gold  snuff-box  upon  the  table. 

"The  next  morning  I  called  for  the  snuff-box,  when  we 
resmned  quite  eagerly  the  conversation  of  the  preceding  day. 
While  thus  engaged,  however,  a  loud  report  as  if  of  a  pistol, 
was  heard  immediately  beneath  the  windows  of  the  hotel,  and 
was  succeeded  by  a  series  of  fearful  screams,  and  the  shoutings 

of  a  terrified  mob.    D rushed  to  a  casement,  threw  it 

open,  and  looked  out.  In  the  mean  time  I  stepped  to  the  card- 
rack,  took  the  letter,  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  replaced  it  by  a 
facsimile  (so  far  as  regards  externals),  which  I  had  carefully 

prepared  at  my  lodgings  —  imitating  the  D cipher  very 

readily  by  means  of  a  seal  formed  of  bread. 

"The  disturbance  in  the  street  had  been  occasioned  by  the 
frantic  behavior  of  a  man  with  a  musket.  He  had  fired  it  among 
a  crowd  of  women  and  children.  It  proved,  however,  to  have 
been  without  ball,  and  the  fellow  was  suffered  to  go  his  way 

as  a  lunatic  or  a  drunkard.   When  he  had  gone,  D came 

from  the  window,  whither  I  had  followed  him  immediately 
upon  securing  the  object  in  view.  Soon  afterwards  I  bade  him 
farewell.  The  pretended  lunatic  was  a  man  in  my  own  pay." 

"But  what  purpose  had  you,"  I  asked,  "in  replacing  the 
letter  by  a  facsimile  ?  Would  it  not  have  been  better  at  the 
first  visit  to  have  seized  it  openly,  and  departed?" 

"D ,"  replied  Dupin,  "is  a  desperate  man  and  a  man  of 

nerve.  His  hotel,  too,  is  not  without  attendants  devoted  to  his 
interests.  Had  I  made  the  wild  attempt  you  suggest  I  might 
never  have  left  the  ministerial  presence  alive.  The  good  people 
of  Paris  might  have  heard  of  me  no  more.  But  I  had  an  object 


192  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

apart  from  these  considerations.  You  know  my  political  pre- 
possessions. In  this  matter,  I  act  as  a  partisan  of  the  lady 
concerned.  For  eighteen  months  the  minister  has  had  her  in 
his  power.  She  has  now  him  in  hers  —  since,  being  unaware 
that  the  letter  is  not  in  his  possession,  he  will  proceed  with  his 
exactions  as  if  it  was.  Thus  will  he  inevitably  commit  himself 
at  once  to  his  poHtical  destruction.  His  downfall,  too,  will  not 
be  more  precipitate  than  awkward.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk 
about  the/acilis  descensus  Averni,^  but  in  all  kinds  of  climbing, 
as  Catalan!^  said  of  singing,  it  is  far  more  easy  to  get  up  than 
to  come  down.  In  the  present  instance  I  have  no  sympathy 
—  at  least  no  pity  —  for  him  who  descends.  He  is  that  mon- 
strum  horrendum,^  an  unprincipled  man  of  genius.  I  confess, 
however,  that  I  should  like  very  well  to  know  the  precise 
character  of  his  thoughts,  when,  being  defied  by  her  whom  the 
Prefect  terms  'a  certain  personage,'  he  is  reduced  to  opening 
the  letter  which  I  left  for  him  in  the  card-rack." 
"How?  did  you  put  anything  particular  in  it?" 
*'Why  —  it  did  not  seem  altogether  right  to  leave  the 

interior  blank  —  that  would  have  been  insulting.    D ,  at 

Vienna,  once  did  me  an  evil  turn,  which  I  told  him,  quite 
good-humoredly,  that  I  should  remember.  So,  as  I  knew  he 
would  feel  some  curiosity  in  regard  to  the  identity  of  the  per- 
son who  had  outwitted  him,  I  thought  it  a  pity  not  to  give 
him  a  clue.  He  is  well  acquainted  with  my  manuscript,  and  I 
just  copied  into  the  middle  of  the  blank  sheet  the  words  — 

' Un  dessein  si  funeste, 

S'il  n'est  digne  d'Atr^e,  est  digne  de  Thyeste.'  * 

They  are  to  be  found  in  Crebillon's  AtreeJ^ 

1  "Easy  is  the  descent  to  Hades."   (Virgil's  ^neid.) 

2  A  renowned  Italian  singer. 

3  "Horrible  monster."    (Virgil's  yEneid.) 

*  "So  dark  a  design  that,  if  it  is  not  worthy  of  Atreus,  it  is  worthy  of  Thy- 
estes."  The  design  of  Thyestes,  who  seduced  the  wife  of  his  brother  Atreus  and 
planned  his  death,  was  dark;  darker  yet  was  that  of  Atreus,  who  slew  three  sons 
of  Thyestes  and  served  them  to  him  at  table. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

THE  WEDDING  KNELL  ^ 

There  is  a  certain  church  in  the  city  of  New  York  which  I 
have  always  regarded  with  peculiar  interest,  on  account  of  a 
marriage  there  solemnized,  under  very  singular  circumstances, 
in  my  grandmother's  girlhood.  That  venerable  lady  chanced 
to  be  a  spectator  of  the  scene,  and  ever  after  made  it  her  favor- 
ite narrative.  Whether  the  edifice  now  standing  on  the  same 
site  be  the  identical  one  to  which  she  referred,  I  am  not  anti- 
quarian enough  to  know;  nor  would  it  be  worth  while  to  correct 
myself,  perhaps,  of  an  agreeable  error,  by  reading  the  date  of 
its  erection  on  the  tablet  over  the  door.  It  is  a  stately  church, 
surrounded  by  an  inclosure  of  the  loveliest  green,  within  which 
appear  urns,  pillars,  obeHsks,  and  other  forms  of  moniunental 
m'krble,  the  tributes  of  private  affection,  or  more  splendid 
memorials  of  historic  dust.  With  such  a  place,  though  the 
tumult  of  the  city  rolls  beneath  its  tower,  one  would  be  willing 
to  connect  some  legendary  interest. 

The  marriage  might  be  considered  as  the  result  of  an  early 

*  Twice-Told  Tales.  Most  of  the  tales  were  written  in  a  "dismal  chamber" 
in  the  second  story  of  a  house  on  Herbert  Street,  Salem.  "These  stories  were 
published  in  magazines  and  annuals,"  says  Hawthorne,  "extending  over  a 
period  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  and  comprising  the  whole  of  the  writer's  young 
manhood."  In  1837  they  were  published  as  a  book,  the  title  of  which  was  sug- 
gested by  a  line  in  King  John,  — 

"  Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale." 

Hawthorne's  own  comment  on  these  stories  contains  the  following  penetrating, 
if  not  very  sympathetic  passage:  "They  have  the  pale  tint  of  flowers  that  blos- 
somed in  too  retired  a  shade,  —  the  coolness  of  a  meditative  habit,  which  diffuses 
itself  through  the  feeling  and  observation  of  every  sketch.  Instead  of  passion 
there  is  sentiment;  and,  even  in  what  purport  to  be  pictures  of  actual  Ufe,  we 
have  allegory,  not  always  so  warmly  dressed  in  its  habiliments  of  flesh  and  blood 
as  to  be  taken  into  the  reader's  mind  without  a  shiver.  Whether  from  lack  of 
power,  or  an  imconquerable  reserve,  the  Author's  touches  have  often  an  effect 
of  tameness;  the  merriest  man  can  hardly  contrive  to  laugh  at  his  broadest 
humor;  the  tenderest  woman,  one  would  suppose,  will  hardly  shed  warm  tears 
at  his  deepest  pathos.  The  book,  if  you  would  see  anything  in  it,  requires  to  be 
read  in  the  clear,  brown,  twilight  atmosphere  in  which  it  was  written;  if  opened 
in  the  sunshine,  it  is  apt  to  look  exceedingly  like  a  volume  of  blank  pages." 


194  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

engagement,  though  there  had  been  two  intermediate  weddings 
on  the  lady's  part,  and  forty  years  of  ceHbacy  on  that  of  the 
gentleman.  At  sixty-five,  Mr.  Ellenwood  was  a  shy,  but  not 
quite  a  secluded  man;  selfish,  like  all  men  who  brood  over  their 
own  hearts,  yet  manifesting  on  rare  occasions  a  vein  of  gener- 
ous sentiment;  a  scholar  throughout  life,  though  always  an 
indolent  one,  because  his  studies  had  no  definite  object,  either 
of  public  advantage  or  personal  ambition;  a  gentleman,  high 
bred  and  fastidiously  deUcate,  yet  sometimes  requiring  a  con- 
siderable relaxation,  in  his  behalf,  of  the  common  rules  of 
society.  In  truth,  there  were  so  many  anomalies  in  his  charac- 
ter, and  though  shrinking  with  diseased  sensibiHty  from  public 
notice,  it  had  been  his  fatality  so  often  to  become  the  topic  of 
the  day,  by  some  wild  eccentricity  of  conduct,  that  people 
searched  his  lineage  for  an  hereditary  taint  of  insanity.  But 
there  was  no  need  of  this.  His  caprices  had  their  origin  in  a 
mind  that  lacked  the  support  of  an  engrossing  purpose,  and  in 
feelings  that  preyed  upon  themselves  for  want  of  other  food. 
If  he  were  mad,  it  was  the  consequence,  and  not  the  cause,  of  an 
aimless  and  abortive  life.  • 

The  widow  was  as  complete  a  contrast  to  her  third  bride- 
groom, in  everything  but  age,  as  can  well  be  conceived.  Com- 
pelled to  relinquish  her  first  engagement,  she  had  been  united 
to  a  man  of  twice  her  own  years,  to  whom  she  became  an 
exemplary  wife,  and  by  whose  death  she  was  left  in  possession 
of  a  splendid  fortune.  A  Southern  gentleman,  considerably 
younger  than  herself,  succeeded  to  her  hand,  and  carried  her 
to  Charleston,  where,  after  many  uncomfortable  years,  she 
found  herself  again  a  widow.  It  would  have  been  singular, 
if  any  uncommon  delicacy  of  feeling  had  survived  through  such 
a  life  as  Mrs.  Dabney's;  it  could  not  but  be  crushed  and  killed 
by  her  early  disappointment,  the  cold  duty  of  her  first  marriage, 
the  dislocation  of  the  heart's  principles,  consequent  on  a  second 
union,  and  the  unkindness  of  her  Southern  husband,  which 
had  inevitably  driven  her  to  connect  the  idea  of  his  death  with 
that  of  her  comfort.  To  be  brief,  she  was  that  wisest,  but  un- 
loveliest,  variety  of  woman,  a  philosopher,  bearing  troubles  of 
the  heart  with  equanimity,  dispensing  with  all  that  should  have 
been  her  happiness,  and  making  the  best  of  what  remained. 
Sage  in  most  matters,  the  widow  was  perhaps  the  more  amia- 


THE  WEDDING  KNELL  195 

ble  for  the  one  frailty  that^made  her  ridiculous.  Being  child- 
less, she  could  not  remain  beautiful  by  proxy,  in  the  person  of 
a  daughter;  she  therefore  refused  to  grow  old  and  ugly,  on  any 
consideration;  she  struggled  with  Time,  and  held  fast  her  roses 
in  spite  of  him,  till  the  venerable  thief  appeared  to  have  relin- 
quished the  spoil,  as  not  worth  the  trouble  of  acquiring  it. 

The  approaching  marriage  of  this  woman  of  the  world  with 
such  an  unworldly  man  as  Mr.  Ellenwood  was  announced  soon 
after  Mrs.  Dabney's  return  to  her  native  city.  Superficial 
observers,  and  deeper  ones,  seemed  to  concur  in  supposing  that 
the  lady  must  have  borne  no  inactive  part  in  arranging  the 
affair;  there  were  considerations  of  expediency  which  she  would 
be  far  more  likely  to  appreciate  than  Mr.  Ellenwood;  and  there 
was  just  the  specious  phantom  of  sentiment  and  romance  in 
this  late  union  of  two  early  lovers  which  sometimes  makes  a 
fool  of  a  woman  who  has  lost  her  true  feelings  among  the 
accidents  of  life.  All  the  wonder  was,  how  the  gentleman,  with 
his  lack  of  worldly  wisdom  and  agonizing  consciousness  of 
ridicule,  could  have  been  induced  to  take  a  measure  at  once 
so  prudent  and  so  laughable.  But  while  people  talked  the 
wedding-day  arrived.  The  ceremony  was  to  be  solemnized 
according  to  the  EpiscopaHan  forms,  and  in  open  church,  with 
a  degree  of  pubHcity  that  attracted  many  spectators,  who 
occupied  the  front  seats  of  the  galleries,  and  the  pews  near  the 
altar  and  along  the  broad  aisle.  It  had  been  arranged,  or  possi- 
bly it  was  the  custom  of  the  day,  that  the  parties  should  pro- 
ceed separately  to  church.  By  some  accident  the  bridegroom 
was  a  Uttle  less  punctual  than  the  widow  and  her  bridal  attend- 
ants; with  whose  arrival,  after  this  tedious,  but  necessary 
preface,  the  action  of  our  tale  may  be  said  to  commence. 

The  climisy  wheels  of  several  old-fashioned  coaches  were 
heard,  and  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  composing  the  bridal 
party  came  through  the  church  door  with  the  sudden  and  glad- 
some effect  of  a  burst  of  simshine.  The  whole  group,  except 
the  principal  figure,  was  made  up  of  youth  and  gayety.  As 
they  streamed  up  the  broad  aisle,  while  the  pews  and  pillars 
seemed  to  brighten  on  either  side,  their  steps  were  as  buoyant 
as  if  they  mistook  the  church  for  a  ball-room,  and  were  ready 
to  dance  hand  in  hand  to  the  altar.  So  brilliant  was  the  specta- 
cle that  few  took  notice  of  a  singular  phenomenon  that  had 


196  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

marked  its  entrance.  At  the  moment  when  the  bride's  foot 
touched  the  threshold  the  bell  swung  heavily  in  the  tower 
above  her,  and  sent  forth  its  deepest  knell.  The  vibrations  died 
away  and  returned  with  prolonged  solemnity,  as  she  entered 
the  body  of  the  church. 

"  Good  heavens!  what  an  omen,"  whispered  a  young  lady  to 
her  lover. 

''On  my  honor,"  replied  the  gentleman,  ''I  believe  the  bell 
has  the  good  taste  to  toll  of  its  own  accord.  What  has  she  to 
do  with  weddings?  If  you,  dearest" Julia,  were  approaching  the 
altar  the  bell  would  ring  out  its  merriest  peal.  It  has  only  a 
funeral  knell  for  her." 

The  bride  and  most  of  her  company  had  been  too  much 
occupied  with  the  bustle  of  entrance  to  hear  the  first  boding 
stroke  of  the  bell,  or  at  least  to  reflect  on  the  singularity  of  such 
a  welcome  to  the  altar.  They  therefore  continued  to  advance 
with  undiminished  gayety.  The  gorgeous  dresses  of  the  time, 
the  crimson  velvet  coats,  the  gold-laced  hats,  the  hoop  petti- 
coats, the  silk,  satin,  brocade,  and  embroidery,  the  buckles, 
canes,  and  swords,  all  displayed  to  the  best  advantage  on 
persons  suited  to  such  finery,  made  the  group  appear  more  like 
a  bright-colored  picture  than  anything  real.  But  by  what  per- 
versity of  taste  had  the  artist  represented  his  principal  figure 
as  so  wrinkled  and  decayed,  while  yet  he  had  decked  her  out  in 
the  brightest  splendor  of  attire,  as  if  the  loveliest  maiden  had 
suddenly  withered  into  age,  and  become  a  moral  to  the  beauti- 
ful around  her!  On  they  went,  however,  and  had  glittered 
along  about  a  third  of  the  aisle,  when  another  stroke  of  the 
bell  seemed  to  fill  the  church  with  a  visible  gloom,  dimming 
and  obscuring  the  bright  pageant,  till  it  shone  forth  again  as 
from  a  mist. 

This  time  the  party  wavered,  stopped,  and  huddled  closer 
together,  while  a  slight  scream  was  heard  from  some  of  the 
ladies,  and  a  confused  whispering  among  the  gentlemen.  Thus 
tossing  to  and  fro,  they  might  have  been  fancifully  compared 
to  a  splendid  bunch  of  flowers,  suddenly  shaken  by  a  puff  of 
wind,  which  threatened  to  scatter  the  leaves  of  an  old,  brown, 
withered  rose,  on  the  same  stalk  with  two  dewy  buds,  —  such 
being  the  emblem  of  the  widow  between  her  fair  young  bride- 
maids.  But  her  heroism  was  admirable.   She  had  started  with 


THE  WEDDING  KNELL  197 

an  irrepressible  shudder,  as^if  the  stroke  of  the  bell  had  fallen 
directly  on  her  heart;  then,  recovering  herself,  while  her  attend- 
ants were  yet  in  dismay,  she  took  the  lead,  and  paced  calmly 
up  the  aisle.  The  bell  continued  to  swing,  strike,  and  vibrate, 
with  the  same  doleful  regularity  as  when  a  corpse  is  on  its  way 
to  the  tomb. 

"My  young  friends  here  have  their  nerves  a  little  shaken," 
said  the  widow,  with  a  smile,  to  the  clerg^onan  at  the  altar. 
"But  so  many  weddings  have  been  ushered  in  with  the  merriest 
peal  of  the  bells,  and  yet  turned  out  unhappily,  that  I  shall 
hope  for  better  fortune  under  such  different  auspices." 

"Madam,"  answered  the  rector,  in  great  perplexity,  "this 
strange  occurrence  brings  to  my  mind  a  marriage  sermon  of  the 
famous  Bishop  Taylor,  wherein  he  mingles  so  many  thoughts  of 
mortality  and  future  woe,  that,  to  speak  somewhat  after  his 
own  rich  style,  he  seems  to  hang  the  bridal  chamber  in  black, 
and  cut  the  wedding  garment  out  of  a  co&n  pall.  And  it  has 
been  the  custom  of  divers  nations  to  infuse  something  of  sad- 
ness into  their  marriage  ceremonies,  so  to  keep  death  in  mind 
while  contracting  that  engagement  which  is  life's  chiefest 
business.  Thus  we  may  draw  a  sad  but  profitable  moral  from 
this  funeral  knell."- 

But,  though  the  clergyman  might  have  given  his  moral  even 
a  keener  point,  he  did  not  fail  to  dispatch  an  attendant  to  in- 
quire into  the  mystery,  and  stop  those  sounds,  so  dismally 
appropriate  to  such  a  marriage.  A  brief  space  elapsed,  during 
which  the  silence  was  broken  only  by  whispers,  and  a  few  suj>- 
pressed  titterings,  among  the  wedding  party  and  the  spectators, 
who,  after  the  first  shock,  were  disposed  to  draw  an  ill-natured 
merriment  from  the  affair.  The  young  have  less  charity  for 
aged  follies  than  the  old  for  those  of  youth.  The  widow's 
glance  was  observed  to  wander,  for  an  instant,  towards  a 
window  of  the  church,  as  if  searching  for  the  time-worn  marble 
that  she  had  dedicated  to  her  first  husband;  then  her  eyelids 
dropped  over  their  faded  orbs,  and  her- thoughts  were  drawn 
irresistibly  to  another  grave.  Two  buried  men,  with  a  voice  at 
her  ear,  and  a  cry  afar  off,  were  calling  her  to  lie  down  beside 
them.  Perhaps,  with  momentary  truth  of  feeling,  she  thought 
how  much  happier  had  been  her  fate,  if,  after  years  of  bhss,  the 
bell  were  now  tolling  for  her  funeral,  and  she  were  followed  to 


198  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

the  grave  by  the  old  affection  of  her  earliest  lover,  long  her 
husband.  But  why  had  she  returned  to  him,  when  their  cold 
hearts  shrank  from  each  other's  embrace? 

Still  the  death-bell  tolled  so  mournfully,  that  the  sunshine 
seemed  to  fade  in  the  air.  A  whisper,  communicated  from  those 
who  stood  nearest  the  windows,  now  spread  through  the 
church;  a  hearse,  with  a  train  of  several  coaches,  was  creeping 
along  the  street,  conveying  some  dead  man  to  the  churchyard, 
while  the  bride  awaited  a  Hving  one  at  the  altar.  Immedi- 
ately after,  the  footsteps  of  the  bridegroom  and  his  friends 
were  heard  at  the  door.  The  widow  looked  down  the  aisle, 
and  clinched  the  arm  of  one  of  her  bridemaids  in  her  bony  hand 
with  such  unconscious  violence,  that  the  fair  girl  trembled. 

"You  frighten  me,  my  dear  madam!"  cried  she.  ''For 
Heaven's  sake,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing,"  said  the  widow;  then,  whisper- 
ing close  to  her  ear,  "There  is  a  foolish  fancy  that  I  cannot  get 
rid  of.  I  am  expecting  my  bridegroom  to  come  into  the  church, 
with  my  first  two  husbands  for  groomsmen!" 

"Look,  look!"  screamed  the  bridemaid.  "What  is  here? 
The  funeral!'^ 

As  she  spoke,  a  dark  procession  paced  into  the  church.  First 
came  an  old  man  and  woman,  like  chief  mourners  at  a  funeral, 
attired  from  head  to  foot  in  the  deepest  black,  all  but  their 
pale  features  and  hoary  hair;  he  leaning  on  a  staff,  and  sup- 
porting her  decrepit  form  with  his  nerveless  arm.  Behind 
appeared  another,  and  another  pair,  as  aged,  as  black,  and 
mournful  as  the  first.  As  they  drew  near,  the  widow  recognized 
in  every  face  some  trait  of  former  friends,  long  forgotten,  but 
now  returning,  as  if  from  their  old  graves,  to  warn  her  to  pre- 
pare a  shroud;  or,  with  purpose  almost  as  unwelcome,  to  ex- 
hibit their  wrinkles  and  infirmity,  and  claim  her  as  their  com- 
panion by  the  tokens  of  her  own  decay.  Many  a  merry  night 
ha'd  she  danced  with  them,  in  youth.  And  now,  in  joyless  age, 
she  felt  that  some  withered  partner  should  request  her  hand, 
and  all  unite,  in  a  dance  of  death,  to  the  music  of  the  funeral 
bell. 

While  these  aged  mourners  were  passing  up  the  aisle,  it  was 
observed  that,  from  pew  to  pew,  the  spectators  shuddered  with 
irrepressible  awe,  as  some  object,  hitherto  concealed  by  the  in- 


THE  WEDDING  KNELL  199 

tervening  figures,  came  full  in  sight.  Many  turned  away  their 
faces;  others  kept  a  fixed  and  rigid  stare;  and  a  young  girl 
giggled  hysterically,  and  fainted  with  the  laughter  on  her  lips. 
When  the  spectral  procession  approached  the  altar,  each 
couple  separated,  and  slowly  diverged,  till,  in  the  centre, 
appeared  a  form,  that  had  been  worthily  ushered  in  with  all 
this  gloomy  pomp,  the  death  knell,  and  the  fimeral.  It  was  the 
bridegroom  in  his  shroud! 

No  garb  but  that  of  the  grave  could  have  befitted  such  a 
deathlike  aspect;  the  eyes,  indeed,  had  the  wild  gleam  of  a 
sepulchral  lamp;  all  else  was  fixed  in  the  stern  calmness  which 
old  men  wear  in  the  coffin.  The  corpse  stood  motionless,  but 
addressed  the  widow  in  accents  that  seemed  to  melt  into  the 
clang  of  the  bell,  which  fell  heavily  on  the  air  while  he  spoke. 

"  Come,  my  bride! "  said  those  pale  Ups,  *'  the  hearse  is  ready. 
The  sexton  stands  waiting  for  us  at  the  door  of  the  tomb.  Let 
us  be  married;  and  then  to  our  coffins!" 

How  shall  the  widow's  horror  be  represented?  It  gave  her 
the  ghastliness  of  a  dead  man's  bride.  Her  youthful  friends 
stood  apart,  shuddering  at  the  mourners,  the  shrouded  bride- 
groom, and  herself;  the  whole  scene  expressed,  by  the  strong- 
est imagery,  the  vain  struggle  of  the  gilded  vanities  of  this 
world,  when  opposed  to  age,  infirmity,  sorrow,  and  death. 
The  awe-struck  silence  was  first  broken  by  the  clergyman. 

"Mr.  Ellenwood,"  said  he,  soothingly,  yet  with  somewhat 
of  authority,  "you  are  not  well.  Your  mind  has  been  agitated 
by  the  unusual  circumstances  in  which  you  are  placed.  The 
ceremony  must  be  deferred.  As  an  old  friend,  let  me  entreat  you 
to  return  home." 

"Home!  yes,  but  not  without  my  bride,"  answered  he,  in  the 
same  hollow  accents.  "You  deem  this  mockery;  perhaps  mad- 
ness. Had  I  bedizened  my  aged  and  broken  frame  with  scarlet 
and  embroidery  —  had  I  forced  my  withered  lips  to  smile  at 
my  dead  heart  —  that  might  have  been  mockery,  or  madness. 
But  now,  let  young  and  old  declare,  which  of  us  has  come  hither 
without  a  wedding  garment,  the  bridegroom  or  the  bride!" 

He  stepped  forward  at  a  ghostly  pace,  and  stood  beside  the 
widow,  contrasting  the  awful  simplicity  of  his  shroud  with  the 
glare  and  glitter  in  which  she  had  arrayed  herself  for  this  un- 
happy scene.  None,  that  beheld  them,  could  deny  the  terrible 


200  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

strength  of  the  moral  which  his  disordered  intellect  had  con- 
trived to  draw. 

"Cruel!  cruel!"  groaned  the  heart-stricken  bride. 

"Cruel!"  repeated  he;  then,  losing  his  deathlike  composure 
in  a  wild  bitterness:  "Heaven  judge  which  of  us  has  been  cruel 
to  the  other!  In  youth  you  deprived  me  of  my  happiness,  my 
hopes,  my  aims;  you  took  away  all  the  substance  of  my  life, 
and  made  it  a  dream  without  reality  enough  even  to  grieve  at 
—  with  only  a  pervading  gloom,  through  which  I  walked 
wearily,  and  cared  not  whither.  But  after  forty  years,  when  I 
have  built  my  tomb,  and  would  not  give  up  the  thought  of 
resting  there  —  no,  not  for  such  a  life  as  we  once  pictured  — 
you  call  me  to  the  altar.  At  your  summons  I  am  here.  But 
other  husbands  have  enjoyed  your  youth,  your  beauty,  your 
warmth  of  heart,  and  all  that  could  be  termed  your  life.  What 
is  there  for  me  but  your  decay  and  death?  And  therefore  I 
have  bidden  these  funeral  friends,  and  bespoken  the  sexton's 
deepest  knell,  and  am  come,  in  my  shroud,  to  wed  you,  as  with 
a  burial  service,  that  we  may  join  our  hands  at  the  door  of  the 
sepulchre,  and  enter  it  together." 

It  was  not  frenzy;  it  was  not  merely  the  drunkenness  of 
strong  emotion,  in  a  heart  unused  to  it,  that  now  wrought  upon 
the  bride.  The  stern  lesson  of  the  day  had  done  its  work;  her 
worldliness  was  gone.   She  seized  the  bridegroom's  hand. 

"Yes!"  cried  she.  "Let  us  wed,  even  at  the  door  of  the 
sepulchre!  My  life  is  gone  in  vanity  and  emptiness.  But  at  its 
close  there  is  one  true  feeling.  It  has  made  me  what  I  was  in 
youth;  it  makes  me  worthy  of  you.  Time  is  no  more  for  both 
of  us.  Let  us  wed  for  Eternity!" 

With  a  long  and  deep  regard,  the  bridegroom  looked  into  her 
eyes,  while  a  tear  was  gathering  in  his  own.  How  strange  that 
gush  of  human  feeHng  from  the  frozen  bosom  of  a  corpse!  He 
wiped  away  the  tears  even  with  his  shroud. 

"Beloved  of  my  youth,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  wild.  The 
despair  of  my  whole  lifetime  had  returned  at  once,  and  mad- 
dened me.  Forgive;  and  be  forgiven.  Yes,  it  is  evening  with  us 
now;  and  we  have  realized  none  of  our  morning  dreams  of 
happiness.  But  let  us  join  our  hands  before  the  altar,  as  lovers 
whom  adverse  circumstances  have  separated  through  life,  yet 
who  meet  again  as  they  are  leaving  it,  and  find  their  earthly 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT         201 

affection  changed  into  something  holy  as  religion.  And  what 
is  Time,  to  the  married  of  Eternity? '' 

Amid  the  tears  of  many,  and  a  swell  of  exalted  sentiment, 
in  those  who  felt  aright,  was  solemnized  the  union  of  two  im- 
mortal souls.  The  train  of  withered  mourners,  the  hoary  bride- 
groom in  his  shroud,  the  pale  features  of  the  aged  bride,  and 
the  death-bell  tolling  through  the  whole,  till  its  deep  voice 
overpowered  the  marriage  words,  all  marked  the  funeral  of 
earthly  hopes.  But  as  the  ceremony  proceeded,  the  organ,  as 
if  stirred  by  the  sympathies  of  this  impressive  scene,  poured 
forth  an  anthem,  first  mingling  with  the  dismal  knell,  then  ris- 
ing to  a  loftier  strain,  till  the  soul  looked  down  upon  its  woe. 
And  when  the  awful  rite  was  finished,  and  with  cold  hand  in 
cold  hand,  the  Married  of  Eternity  withdrew,  the  organ's  peal 
of  solemn  triumph  drowned  the  Wedding  Knell. 

THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT  ^ 

There  is  an  admirable  foundation  for  a  philosophic  romance  in  the  curious 
history  of  the  early  settlement  of  Mount  Wollaston,  or  Merry  Mount.  In  the 
slight  sketch  here  attempted,  the  facts,  recorded  on  the  grave  pages  of  our  New 
England  annalists,  have  wrought  themselves,  almost  spontaneously,  into  a  sort 
of  allegory.  The  masques,  mummeries,  and  festive  customs,  described  in  the 
text,  are  in  accordance  with  the  manners  of  the  age.  Authority  on  these  points 
may  be  found  in  Strutt's  Book  of  English  Sports  and  Pastimes. 

BRiGHT^ere  the  days  at  Merry  Mount,  when  the  Maypole 
was  the  banner  staff  of  that  gay  colony!  They  who  reared  it, 
should  their  banner  be  triumphant,  were  to  pour  sunshine  over 
New  England's  rugged  hills,  and  scatter  flower  seeds  through- 
out the  soil.  Jollity  and  gloom  were  contending  for  an  empire. 
Midsummer  eve  had  come,  bringing  deep  verdure  to  the  forest, 
and  roses  in  her  lap,  of  a  more  vivid  hue  than  the  tender  buds 
of  Spring.  But  May,  or  her  mirthful  spirit,  dwelt  all  the  year 
round  at  Merry  Mount,  sporting  with  the  Summer  months, 
and  revelling  with  Autumn,  and  basking  in  the  glow  of  Win- 
ter's fireside.  Through  a  world  of  toil  and  care  she  flitted  with 
a  dreamlike  smile,  and  came  hither  to  find  a  home  among  the 
lightsome  hearts  of  Merry  Mount. 

Never  had  the  Maypole  been  so  gayly  decked  as  at  sunset 
on  midsummer  eve.  This  venerated  emblem  was  a  pine-tree, 

1  Twice-Told  Tales. 


202  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

which  had  preserved  the  slender  grace  of  youth,  while  it 
equalled  the  loftiest  height  of  the  old  wood  monarchs.  From 
its  top  streamed  a  silken  banner,  colored  like  the  rainbow. 
Down  nearly  to  the  ground  the  pole  was  dressed  with  birchen 
boughs,  and  others  of  the  liveliest  green,  and  some  with  silvery 
leaves,  fastened  by  ribbons  that  fluttered  in  fantastic  knots  of 
twenty  different  colors,  but  no  sad  ones.  Garden  flowers,  and 
blossoms  of  the  wilderness,  laughed  gladly  forth  amid  the  ver- 
dure, so  fresh  and  dewy  that  they  must  have  grown  by  magic 
on  that  happy  pine-tree.  Where  this  green  and  flowery  splen- 
dor terminated,  the  shaft  of  the  Maypole  was  stained  with 
the  seven  brilliant  hues  of  the  banner  at  its  top.  On  the  lowest 
green  bough  hung  an  abundant  wreath  of  roses,  some  that  had 
been  gathered  in  the  sunniest  spots  of  the  forest,  and  others, 
of  still  richer  blush,  which  the  colonists  had  reared  from 
English  seed.  0,  people  of  the  Golden  Age,  the  chief  of  your 
husbandry  was  to  raise  flowers! 

But  what  was  the  wild  throng  that  stood  hand  in  hand  about 
the  Maypole?  It  could  not  be  that  the  fauns  and  njmiphs, 
when  driven  from  their  classic  groves  and  homes  of  ancient 
fable,  had  sought  refuge,  as  all  the  persecuted  did,  in  the  fresh 
woods  of  the  West.  These  were  Gothic  monsters,  though  per- 
haps of  Grecian  ancestry.  On  the  shoulders  of  a  comely  youth 
uprose  the  head  and  branching  antlers  of  a  stag;  a  second, 
human  in  all  other  points,  had  the  grim  visage  of  a  wolf;  a 
third,  still  with  the  trunk  and  limbs  of  a  mortal  man,  showed 
the  beard  and  horns  of  a  venerable  he-goat.  There  was  the 
likeness  of  a  bear  erect,  brute  in  all  but  his  hind  legs,  which 
were  adorned  with  pink  silk  stockings.  And  here  again,  almost 
as  wondrous,  stood  a  real  bear  of  the  dark  forest,  lending  each 
of  his  forepaws  to  the  grasp  of  a  human  hand,  and  as  ready  for 
the  dance  as  any  in  that  circle.  His  inferior  nature  rose  half 
way,  to  meet  his  companions  as  they  stooped.  Other  faces 
wore  the  simiKtude  of  man  or  woman,  but  distorted  or  extrava- 
gant, with  red  noses  pendulous  before  their  mouths,  which 
seemed  of  awful  depth,  and  stretched  from  ear  to  ear  in  an 
eternal  fit  of  laughter.  Here  might  be  seen  the  Salvage  Man, 
well  known  in  heraldry,  hairy  as  a  baboon,  and  girdled  with 
green  leaves.  By  his  side,  a  noble  figure,  but  still  a  counterfeit, 
appeared  an  Indian  hunter,  with  feathery  crest  and  wampum 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT         203 

belt.  Many  of  this  strange  company  wore  fools-caps,  and  had 
little  bells  appended  to  their  garments,  tinkling  with  a  silvery 
sound,  responsive  to  the  inaudible  music  of  their  gleesome 
spirits.  Some  youths  and  maidens  were  of  soberer  garb,  yet 
well  maintained  their  places  in  the  irregular  throng  by  the 
expression  of  wild  revelry  upon  their  features.  Such  were  the 
colonists  of  Merry  Mount,  as  they  stood  in  the  broad  smile  of 
sunset  round  their  venerated  Maypole. 

Had  a  wanderer,  bewildered  in  the  melancholy  forest,  heard 
their  mirth,  and  stolen  a  half-affrighted  glance,  he  might  have 
fancied  them  the  crew  of  Comus,  some  already  transformed  to 
brutes,  some  midway  between  man  and  beast,  and  the  others 
rioting  in  the  flow  of  tipsy  jollity  that  foreran  the  change.  But 
a  band  of  Puritans,  who  watched  the  scene,  invisible  themselves, 
compared  the  masques  to  those  devils  and  ruined  souls  with 
whom  their  superstition  peopled  the  black  wilderness. 

Within  the  ring  of  monsters  appeared  the  two  airiest  forms 
that  had  ever  trodden  on  any  more  solid  footing  than  a  purple 
and  golden  cloud.  One  was  a  youth  in  glistening  apparel,  wdth 
a  scarf  of  the  rainbow  pattern  crosswise  on  his  breast.  His 
right  hand  held  a  gilded  staff,  the  ensign  of  high  dignity  among 
the  revellers,  and  his  left  grasped  the  slender  fingers  of  a  fair 
maiden,  not  less  gayly  decorated  than  himself.  Bright  roses 
glowed  in  contrast  with  the  dark  and  glossy  curls  of  each,  and 
were  scattered  round  their  feet,  or  had  sprung  up  spontane- 
ously there.  Behind  this  Kghtsome  couple,  so  close  to  the  May- 
pole that  its  boughs  shaded  his  jovial  face,  stood  the  figure  of 
an  English  priest,  canonically  dressed,  yet  decked  with  flowers, 
in  heathen  fashion,  and  wearing  a  chaplet  of  the  native  vine 
leaves.  By  the  riot  of  his  rolling  eye,  and  the  pagan  decorations 
of  his  holy  garb,  he  seemed  the  wildest  monster  there,  and  the 
very  Comus  of  the  crew. 

"Votaries  of  the  Maypole,"  cried  the  flower-decked  priest, 
"merrily,  all  day  long,  have  the  woods  echoed  to  your  mirth. 
But  be  this  your  merriest  hour,  my  hearts!  Lo,  here  stand  the 
Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May,  whom  I,  a  clerk  of  Oxford,  and 
high  priest  of  Merry  Mount,  am  presently  to  join  in  holy  matri- 
mony. Up  with  your  nimble  spirits,  ye  morris-dancers,  green 
men,  and  glee  maidens,  bears  and  wolves,  and  homed  gentle- 
men! Come;  a  chorus  now,  rich  with  the  old  mirth  of  Merry 


204  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

England,  and  the  wilder  glee  of  this  fresh  forest;  and  then  a 
dance,  to  show  the  youthful  pair  what  Hfe  is  made  of,  and  how 
airily  they  should  go  through  it!  All  ye  that  love  the  Maypole, 
lend  your  voices  to  the  nuptial  song  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of 
the  May!" 

This  wedlock  was  more  serious  than  most  affairs  of  Merry 
Mount,  where  jest  and  delusion,  trick  and  fantasy,  kept  up  a 
continual  carnival.  The  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May,  though 
their  titles  must  be  laid  down  at  sunset,  were  really  and  truly 
to  be  partners  for  the  dance  of  life,  beginning  the  measure  that 
same  bright  eve.  The  wreath  of  roses,  that  hung  from  the  low- 
est green  bough  of  the  Maypole,  had  been  twined  for  them,  and 
would  be  thrown  over  both  their  heads,  in  symbol  of  their 
flowery  union.  When  the  priest  had  spoken,  therefore,  a  riot- 
ous uproar  burst  from  the  rout  of  monstrous  figures. 

"Begin  you  the  stave,  reverend  Sir,"  cried  they  all;  "and 
never  did  the  woods  ring  to  such  a  merry  peal  as  we  of  the 
Maypole  shall  send  up!" 

Immediately  a  prelude  of  pipe,  cithern,  and  viol,  touched 
with  practiced  minstrelsy,  began  to  play  from  a  neighboring 
thicket,  in  such  a  mirthful  cadence  that  the  boughs  of  the 
Maypole  quivered  to  the  sound.  But  the  May  Lord,  he  of  the 
gilded  staff,  chancing  to  look  into  his  Lady's  eyes,  was  wonder 
struck  at  the  almost  pensive  glance  that  met  his  own. 

"Edith,  sweet  Lady  of  the  May,"  whispered  he  reproach- 
fully, "is  yon  wreath  of  roses  a  garland  to  hang  above  our 
graves,  that  you  look  so  sad?  O,  Edith,  this  is  our  golden  time! 
Tarnish  it  not  by  any  pensive  shadow  of  the  mind ;  for  it  may  be 
that  nothing  of  futurity  will  be  brighter  than  the  mere  remem- 
brance of  what  is  now  passing." 

"That  was  the  very  thought  that  saddened  me!  How  came 
it  in  your  mind  too?"  said  Edith,  in  a  still  lower  tone  than  he, 
for  it  was  high  treason  to  be  sad  at  Merry  Mount.  "Therefore 
do  I  sigh  amid  this  festive  music.  And  besides,  dear  Edgar,  I 
struggle  as  with  a  dream,  and  fancy  that  these  shapes  of  our 
jovial  friends  are  visionary,  and  their  mirth  unreal,  and  that 
we  are  no  true  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  What  is  the  mys- 
tery in  my  heart?" 

Just  then,  as  if  a  spell  had  loosened  them,  down  came  a  little 
shower  of  withering  rose  leaves  from  the  Maypole.  Alas,  for 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT         205 

the  young  lovers !  No  sooner  had  their  hearts  glowed  with  real 
passion  than  they  were  sensible  of  something  vague  and  un- 
substantial in  their  former  pleasures,  and  felt  a  dreary  presenti- 
ment of  inevitable  change.  From  the  moment  that  they  truly 
loved*,  they  had  subjected  themselves  to  earth's  doom  of  care 
and  sdrrow,  and  troubled  joy,  and  had  no  more  a  home  at 
Merry  Mount.  That  was  Edith's  mystery.  Now  leave  we  the 
priest  to  marry  them,  and  the  masquers  to  sport  round  the 
Maypole,  till  the  last  sunbeam  be  withdrawn  from  its  summit, 
and  the  shadows  of  the  forest  mingle  gloomily  in  the  dance. 
Meanwhile,  we  may  discover  who  these  gay  people  were. 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  and  more,  the  old  world  and  its 
inhabitants  became  mutually  weary  of  each  other.  Men  voy- 
aged by  thousands  to  the  West:  some  to  barter  glass  beads, 
and  such  like  jewels,  for  the  furs  of  the  Indian  hunter;  some  to 
conquer  virgin  empires;  and  one  stern  band  to  pray.  But  none 
of  these  motives  had  much  weight  with  the  colonists  of  Merry 
Mount.  Their  leaders  were  men  who  had  sported  so  long  with 
life,  that  when  Thought  and  Wisdom  came,  even  these  unwel- 
come guests  were  led  astray  by  the  crowd  of  vanities  which 
they  should  have  put  to  flight.  Erring  Thought  and  perverted 
Wisdom  were  made  to  put  on  masques,  and  play  the  fool.  The 
men  of  whom  we  speak,  after  losing  the  heart's  fresh  gayety, 
imagined  a  wild  philosophy  of  pleasure,  and  came  hither  to  act 
out  their  latest  day-dream.  They  gathered  followers  from  all 
that  giddy  tribe  whose  whole  life  is  like  the  festal  days  of 
soberer  men.  In  their  train  were  minstrels,  not  unknown  in 
London  streets:  wandering  players,  whose  theatres  had  been 
the  halls  of  noblemen;  mummers,  rope-dancers,  and  mounte- 
banks, who  would  long  be  missed  at  wakes,  church  ales,  and 
fairs;  in  a  word,  mirth  makers  of  every  sort,  such  as  abounded 
in  that  age,  but  now  began  to  be  discountenanced  by  the  rapid 
growth  of  Puritanism.  Light  had  their  footsteps  been  on  land, 
and  as  lightly  they  came  across  the  sea.  Many  had  been  mad- 
dened by  their  previous  troubles  into  a  gay  despair;  others  were 
as  madly  gay  in  the  flush  of  youth,  like  the  May  Lord  and  his 
Lady;  but  whatever  might  be  the  quality  of  their  mirth,  old 
and  young  were  gay  at  Merry  Mount.  The  young  deemed  them- 
selves happy.  The  elder  spirits,  if  they  knew  that  mirth  was 
but  the  counterfeit  of  happiness,  yet  followed  the  false  shadow 


2o6  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

wilfully,  because  at  least  her  garments  glittered  brightest. 
Sworn  triflers  of  a  lifetime,  they  would  not  venture  among  the 
sober  truths  of  life  not  even  to  be  truly  blest. 

All  the  hereditary  pastimes  of  Old  England  were  transplanted 
hither.  The  King  of  Christmas  was  duly  crowned,  and  the 
Lord  of  Misrule  bore  potent  sway.  On  the  Eve  of  St.  John, 
they  felled  whole  acres  of  the  forest  to  make  bonfires,  and 
danced  by  the  blaze  all  night,  crowned  mth  garlands,  and 
throwing  flowers  into  the  flame.  At  harvest  time,  though  their 
crop  was  of  the  smallest,  they  made  an  image  with  the  sheaves 
of  Indian  corn,  and  wreathed  it  with  autumnal  garlands,  and 
bore  it  home  triumphantly.  But  what  chiefly  characterized 
the  colonists  of  Merry  Mount  was  their  veneration  for  the 
Ma>pole.  It  has  made  their  true  history  a  poet's  tale.  Spring 
decked  the  hallowed  emblem  with  young  blossoms  and  fresh 
green  boughs;  Summer  brought  roses  of  the  deepest  blush,  and 
the  perfected  foliage  of  the  forest;  Autumn  enriched  it  with 
that  red  and  yellow  gorgeousness  which  converts  each  wild- 
wood  leaf  into  a  painted  flower;  and  Winter  silvered  it  with 
sleet,  and  hung  it  round  with  icicles,  till  it  flashed  in  the  cold 
sunshine,  itself  a  frozen  sunbeam.  Thus  each  alternate  season 
did  homage  to  the  Maypole,  and  paid  it  a  tribute  of  its  own 
richest  splendor.  Its  votaries  danced  round  it,  once,  at  least, 
in  every  month;  sometimes  they  called  it  their  religion,  or  their 
altar;  but  always,  it  was  the  banner  staff  of  Merry  Mount. 

Unfortunately,  there  were  men  in  the  new  world  of  a  sterner 
faith  than  these  Maypole  worshippers.  Not  far  from  Merry 
Mount  was  a  settlement  of  Puritans,  most  dismal  wretches, 
who  said  their  prayers  before  daylight,  and  then  wrought  in 
the  forest  or  the  cornfield  till  evening  made  it  prayer  time  again. 
Their  weapons  were  always  at  hand  to  shoot  down  the  strag- 
gling savage.  When  they  met  in  conclave,  it  was  never  to  keep 
up  the  old  English  mirth,  but  to  hear  sermons  three  hours  long, 
or  to  proclaim  bounties  on  the  heads  of  wolves  and  the  scalps 
of  Indians.  Their  festivals  were  fast  days,  and  their  chief 
pastime  the  singing  of  psalms.  Woe  to  the  youth  or  maiden 
who  did  but  dream  of  a  dance!  The  selectman  nodded  to  the 
constable;  and  there  sat  the  light-heeled  reprobate  in  the 
stocks;  or  if  he  danced,  it  was  round  the  whipping-post,  which 
might  be  termed  the  Puritan  Maypole. 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT    207 

A  party  of  these  grim  Puritans,  toiling  through  the  difficult 
woods,  each  with  a  horseload  of  iron  armor  to  burden  his  foot- 
steps, would  sometimes  draw  near  the  sunny  precincts  of 
Merry  Mount.  There  were  the  silken  colonists,  sporting  round 
their  Ma}^ole;  perhaps  teaching  a  bear  to  dance,  or  striving 
to  communicate  their  mirth  to  the  grave  Indian;  or  masquer- 
ading in  the  skins  of  deer  and  wolves,  which  they  had  hunted 
for  that  especial  purpose.  Often,  the  whole  colony  were  play- 
ing at  blindman's  buff,  magistrates  and  all,  with  their  eyes 
bandaged,  except  a  single  scapegoat,  whom  the  blinded  sinners 
pursued  by  the  tinkUng  of  the  bells  at  his  garments.  Once,  it  is 
said,  they  were  seen  following  a  flower-decked  corpse,  with 
merriment  and  festive  music,  to  his  grave.  But  did  the  dead 
man  laugh?  In  their  quietest  times,  they  sang  ballads  and  told 
tales,  for  the  edification  of  their  pious  visitors;  or  perplexed 
them  with  juggling  tricks;  or  grimied  at  them  through  horse 
collars;  and  when  sport  itself  grew  wearisome,  they  made  game 
of  their  own  stupidity,  and  began  a  yawning  match.  At  the 
very  least  of  these  enormities,  the  men  of  iron  shook  their 
heads  and  frowned  so  darkly  that  the  revellers  looked  up, 
imagining  that  a  momentary  cloud  had  overcast  the  sunshine, 
which  was  to  be  perpetual  there.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Puri- 
tans affirmed  that,  when  a  psalm  was  peaHng  from  their  place 
of  worship,  the  echo  which  the  forest  sent  them  back  seemed 
often  like  the  chorus  of  a  jolly  catch,  closing  with  a  roar  of 
laughter.  Who  but  the  fiend,  and  his  bond  slaves,  the  crew  of 
Merr}^  Mount,  had  thus  disturbed  them?  In  due  time,  a  feud 
arose,  stem  and  bitter  on  one  side,  and  as  serious  on  the  other 
as  anything  could  be  among  such  light  spirits  as  had  sworn 
allegiance  to  the  Maypole.  The  future  complexion  of  New  Eng- 
land was  involved  in  this  important  quarrel.  Should  the  grizzly 
saints  establish  their  jurisdiction  over  the  gay  sinners,  then 
would  their  spirits  darken  all  the  cHme  and  make  it  a  land  of 
clouded  visages,  of  hard  toil,  of  sermon  and  psalm  forever. 
But  should  the  banner  staff  of  Merry  Mount  be  fortunate, 
sunshine  would  break  upon  the  hills,  and  flowers  would  beautify 
the  forest,  and  late  posterity  do  homage  to  the  Maypole. 

After  these  authentic  passages  from  history,  we  return  to 
the  nuptials  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  Alas!  we  have 
delayed  too  long,  and  must  darken  our  tale  too  suddenly.  As 


2o8  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

we  glance  again  at  the  Maypole,  a  solitary  sunbeam  is  fading 
from  the  summit,  and  leaves  only  a  faint,  golden  tinge  blended 
with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  banner.  Even  that  dim  light  is 
now  withdrawn,  rehnquishing  the  whole  domain  of  Merry 
Mount  to  the  evening  gloom,  which  has  rushed  so  instantane- 
ously from  the  black  surrounding  woods.  But  some  of  these 
black  shadows  have  rushed  forth  in  human  shape. 

Yes,  with  the  setting  sun,  the  last  day  of  mirth  had  passed 
from  Merry  Mount.  The  ring  of  gay  masquers  was  disordered 
and  broken;  the  stag  lowered  his  antlers  in  dismay;  the  wolf 
grew  weaker  than  a  lamb;  the  bells  of  the  morris-dancers  tinkled 
with  tremulous  affright.  The  Puritans  had  played  a  character- 
istic part  in  the  Maypole  mummeries.  Their  darksome  figures 
were  intermixed  with  the  wild  shapes  of  their  foes,  and  made 
the  scene  a  picture  of  the  moment,  when  waking  thoughts  start 
up  amid  the  scattered  fantasies  of  a  dream.  The  leader  of  the 
hostile  party  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  while  the  route 
of  monsters  cowered  around  him,  like  evil  spirits  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  dread  magician.  No  fantastic  foolery  could  look  him 
in  the  face.  So  stern  was  the  energy  of  his  aspect,  that  the 
whole  man,  visage,  frame,  and  soul,  seemed  wrought  of  iron, 
gifted  with  life  and  thought,  yet  all  of  one  substance  with  his 
headpiece  and  breastplate.  It  was  the  Puritan  of  Puritans; 
it  was  Endicott  himself !  ^ 

*' Stand  off,  priest  of  Baal!"  said  he,  with  a  grim  frown,  and 
laying  no  reverent  hand  upon  the  surplice.  ''I  know  thee, 
Blackstone!  2  Thou  art  the  man  who  couldst  not  abide  the  rule 
even  of  thine  own  corrupted  church,  and  hast  come  hither  to 
preach  iniquity,  and  to  give  example  of  it  in  thy  life.  But  now 
shall  it  be  seen  that  the  Lord  hath  sanctified  this  wilderness  for 
his  peculiar  people.  Woe  unto  them  that  would  defile  it !  And 
first,  for  this  flower-decked  abomination,  the  altar  of  thy  wor- 
ship!" 

And  with  his  keen  sword  Endicott  assaulted  the  hallowed 
Maypole.  Nor  long  did  it  resist  his  arm.  It  groaned  with  a 
dismal  sound;  it  showered  leaves  and  rosebuds  upon  the  re- 

^  John  Endicott  (1589-1665),  Governor  of  Massachusetts. 

2  Did  Governor  Endicott  speak  less  positively,  we  should  suspect  a  mistake 
here.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Blackstone,  though  an  eccentric,  is  not  known  to  have  been 
an  immoral  man.  We  rather  doubt  his  identity  with  the  priest  of  Merry  Mount. 
[Author's  note.] 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF  MERRY  MOUNT         209 

morseless  enthusiast;  and  finally,  with  all  its  green  boughs  and 
ribbons  and  flowers,  symbolic  of  departed  pleasures,  down  fell 
the  banner  staff  of  Merry  Mount.  As  it  sank,  tradition  says, 
the  evening  sky  grew  darker,  and  the  woods  threw  forth  a  more 
sombre  shadow. 

"There,"  cried  Endicott,  looking  triiunphantly  on  his  work, 
"there  lies  the  only  Maypole  in  New  England!  The  thought  is 
strong  within  me  that,  by  its  fall,  is  shadowed  forth  the  fate  of 
light  and  idle  mirth  makers,  amongst  us  and  our  posterity. 
Amen,  saith  John  Endicott." 

"Amen!"  echoed  his  followers. 

But  the  votaries  of  the  Maypole  gave  one  groan  for  their 
idol.  At  the  sound,  the  Puritan  leader  glanced  at  the  crew  of 
Comus,  each  a  figure  of  broad  mirth,  yet,  at  this  moment, 
strangely  expressive  of  sorrow  and  dismay. 

"VaUant  captain,"  quoth  Peter. Palfrey,  the  Ancient  of  the 
band,  "what  order  shall  be  taken  with  the  prisoners?" 

"I  thought  not  to  repent  me  of  cutting  down  a  Maypole," 
replied  Endicott,  "yet  now  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  plant  it 
again,  and  give  each  of  these  bestial  pagans  one  other  dance 
round  their  idol.  It  would  have  served  rarely  for  a  whipping- 
post!" 

"But  there  are  pine-trees  enow,"  suggested  the  lieutenant. 

"True,  good  Ancient,"  said  the  leader.  "Wherefore,  bind 
the  heathen  crew,  and  bestow  on  them  a  small  matter  of  stripes 
apiece,  as  earnest  of  our  future  justice.  Set  some  of  the  rogues 
in  the  stocks  to  rest  themselves,  so  soon  as  Providence  shall 
bring  us  to  one  of  oilr  own  well-ordered  settlements,  where  such 
accommodations  may  be  found.  Further  penalties,  such  as 
branding  and  cropping  of  ears,  shall  be  thought  of  here- 
after." 

"How  many  stripes  for  the  priest?"  inquired  Ancient 
Palfrey. 

"None  as  yet,"  answered  Endicott,  bending  his  iron  frown 
upon  the  culprit.  "It  must  be  for  the  Great  and  General  Court 
to  determine,  whether  stripes  and  long  imprisonment,  and 
other  grievous  penalty,  may  atone  for  his  transgressions.  Let 
him  look  to  himself  I  For  such  as  violate  our  civil  order,  it  may 
be  permitted  us  to  show  mercy.  But  woe  to  the  wretch  that 
trouble th  our  reHgion!" 


210  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

"And  this  dancing  bear/'  resumed  the  officer.  ''Must  he 
share  the  stripes  of  his  fellows?'^ 

''Shoot  him  through  the  head!''  said  the  energetic  Puritan. 
"I  suspect  witchcraft  in  the  beast." 

"Here  be  a  couple  of  shining  ones,"  continued  Peter  Palfrey, 
pointing  his  weapon  at  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  "They 
seem  to  be  of  high  station  among  these  misdoers.  Methinks 
their  dignity  will  not  be  fitted  with  less  than  a  double  share  of 
stripes." 

Endicott  rested  on  his  sword,  and  closely  surveyed  the  dress 
and  aspect  of  the  hapless  pair.  There  they  stood,  pale,  down- 
cast, and  apprehensive.  Yet  there  was  an  air  of  mutual  support, 
and  of  pure  affection,  seeking  aid  and  giving  it,  that  showed 
them  to  be  man  and  wife,  with  the  sanction  of  priest  upon  their 
love.  The  youth,  in  the  peril  of  the  moment,  had  dropped  his 
gilded  staff,  and  thrown  his  arm  about  the  Lady  of  the  May, 
who  leaned  against  his  breast,  too  lightly  to  burden  him,  but 
with  weight  enough  to  express  that  their  destinies  were  Hnked 
together,  for  good  or  evil.  They  looked  first  at  each  other,  and 
then  into  the  grim  captain's  face.  There  they  stood,  in  the 
first  hour  of  wedlock,  while  the  idle  pleasures,  of  which  their 
companions  were  the  emblems,  had  given  place  to  the  sternest 
cares  of  life,  personified  by  the  dark  Puritans.  But  never  had 
their  youthful  beauty  seemed  so  pure  and  high  as  when  its 
glow  was  chastened  by  adversity. 

"Youth,"  said  Endicott,  "ye  stand  in  an  evil  case,  thou  and 
thy  maiden  wife.  Make  ready  presently,  for  I  am  minded  that 
ye  shall  both  have  a  token  to  remember  your  wedding  day!" 

"Stern  man,"  cried  the  May  Lord,  "how  can  I  move  thee? 
Were  the  means  at  hand,  I  would  resist  to  the  death.  Being 
powerless,  I  entreat!  Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  let  Edith  go 
untouched!" 

"Not  so,"  replied  the  immitigable  zealot.  "We  are  not  wont 
to  show  an  idle  courtesy  to  that  sex,  which  requireth  the 
stricter  discipline.  What  sayest  thou,  maid?  Shall  thy  silken 
bridegroom  suffer  thy  share  of  the  penalty,  besides  his  own?  " 

"Be  it  death,"  said  Edith,  "and  lay  it  all  on  me!" 

Truly,  as  Endicott  had  said,  the  poor  lovers  stood  in  a  woful 
case.  Their  foes  were  triumphant,  their  friends  captive  and 
abased,  their  home  desolate,  the  benighted  wilderness  around 


THE  MAYPOLE  OF   MERRY  MOUNT        211 

them,  and  a  rigorous  destiny,  in  the  shape  of  the  Puritan 
leader,  their  only  guide.  Yet  the  deepening  twilight  could  not 
altogether  conceal  that  the  iron  man  was  softened ;  he  smiled  at 
the  fair  spectacle  of  early  love;  he  almost  sighed  for  the  inevi- 
table blight  of  early  hopes. 

"The  troubles  of  Ufe  have  come  hastily  on  this  yoimg 
couple,"  observed  Endicott.  "We  will  see  how  they  comport 
themselves  under  their  present  trials  ere  we  burden  them  with 
greater.  If,  among  the  spoil,  there  be  any  garments  of  a  more 
decent  fashion,  let  them  be  put  upon  this  May  Lord  and  his 
Lady,  instead  of  their  glistening  vanities.  Look  to  it,  some  of 
you." 

"And  shall  not  the  youth's  hair  be  cut?  "  asked  Peter  Palfrey, 
looking  with  abhorrence  at  the  love-lock  and  long  glossy  curls 
of  the  young  man. 

"  Crop  it  forthwith,  and  that  in  the  true  pumpkin-shell 
fashion,"  answered  the  captain.  "Then  bring  them  along  with 
us,  but  more  gently  than  their  fellows.  There  be  qualities  in  the 
youth,  which  may  make  him  valiant  to  fight,  and  sober  to  toil, 
and  pious  to  pray;  and  in  the  maiden,  that  may  fit  her  to  be- 
come a  mother  in  our  Israel,  bringing  up  babes  in  better  nur- 
ture than  her  own  hath  been.  Nor  think  ye,  young  ones,  that 
they  are  the  happiest,  even  in  our  lifetime  of  a  moment,  who 
misspend  it  in  dancing  round  a  Maypole!" 

And  Endicott,  the  severest  Puritan  of  all  who  laid  the  rock 
foundation  of  New  England,  lifted  the  wreath  of  roses  from  the 
ruin  of  the  Maypole,  and  threw  it,  with  his  own  gaimtleted 
hand,  over  the  heads  of  the  Lord  and  Lady  of  the  May.  It  was  a 
deed  of  prophecy.  As  the  moral  gloom  of  the  world  overpowers 
all  systematic  gayety,  even  so  was  their  home  of  wild  mirth 
made  desolate  amid  the  sad  forest.  They  returned  to  it  no  more. 
But  as  their  flowery  garland  was  wreathed  of  the  brightest 
roses  that  had  grown  there,  so,  in  the  tie  that  united  them, 
were  intertwined  all  the  purest  and  best  of  their  early  joys. 
They  went  heavenward,  supporting  each  other  along  the  diffi- 
cult path  which  it  was  their  lot  to  tread,  and  never  wasted  one 
regretful  thought  on  the  vanities  of  Merry  Mount. 


212  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

THE  OLD  MANSE  1 

THE  AUTHOR  MAKES  THE  READER  ACQUAINTED  WITH 
HIS  ABODE 

Between  two  tall  gateposts  of  rough-hewn  stone  (the  gate 
itself  having  fallen  from  its  hinges  at  some  unknown  epoch) 
we  beheld  the  gray  front  of  the  old  parsonage  terminating  the 
vista  of  an  avenue  of  black  ash-trees.  It  was  now  a  twelve- 
month since  the  funeral  procession  of  the  venerable  clergyman,  ^ 
its  last  inhabitant,  had  turned  from  that  gateway  towards  the 
village  burying-ground.  The  wheel- track  leading  to  the  door, 
as  well  as  the  whole  breadth  of  the  avenue,  was  almost  over- 
grown with  grass,  affording  dainty  mouthfuls  to  two  or  three 
vagrant  cows  and  an  old  white  horse  who  had  his  own  Hving 
to  pick  up  along  the  roadside.  The  glimmering  shadows  that 
lay  half  asleep  between  the  door  of  the  house  and  the  public 
highway  were  a  kind  of  spiritual  medium,  seen  through  which 
the  edifice  had  not  quite  the  aspect  of  belonging  to  the  material 
world.  Certainly  it  had  Uttle  in  common  with  those  ordinary 
abodes  which  stand  so  imminent  upon  the  road  that  every 
passer-by  can  thrust  his  head,  as  it  were,  into  the  domestic 
circle.  From  these  quiet  windows  the  figures  of  passing  travel- 
lers looked  too  remote  and  dim  to  disturb  the  sense  of  privacy. 
In  its  near  retirement  and  accessible  seclusion  it  was  the  very 
spot  for  the  residence  of  a  clergyman,  —  a  man  not  estranged 
from  human  hfe,  yet  enveloped  in  the  midst  of  it  with  a  veil 
woven  of  intermingled  gloom  and  brightness.  It  was  worthy 
to  have  been  one  of  the  time-honored  parsonages  of  England 
in  which,  through  many  generations,  a  succession  of  holy  oc- 
cupants pass  from  youth  to  age,  and  bequeath  each  an  inherit- 
ance of  sanctity  to  pervade  the  house  and  hover  over  it  as  with 
an  atmosphere. 

Nor,  in  truth,  had  the  Old  Manse  ever  "been  profaned  by  a 
lay  occupant  until  that  memorable  summer  afternoon  when  I 

^  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.  After  leaving  Brook  Farm  and  marrying  Sophia 
Peabody,  Hawthorne  came,  in  1842,  to  live  in  the  parsonage  adjacent  to  the 
battle-ground  at  Concord.  Here  he  prepared  for  publication  a  collection  of 
essays  and  stories,  writing  "The  Old  Manse"  as  an  introduction.  The  work 
appeared,  in  two  volumes,  in  1846,  with  a  title  suggested  by  the  house  itself. 

'  Dr.  Ezra  Ripley.  See  Emerson's  Lectures  and  Biographical  Sketches. 


THE  OLD  MANSE  213 

,ntered  it  as  my  home.  A  priest  had  built  it;  a  priest  had  suc- 
ceeded to  it;  other  priestly  men  from  time  to  time  had  dwelt  in 
it;  and  children  born  in  its. chambers  had  grown  up  to  assume 
the  priestly  character.  It  was  awful  to  reflect  how  many  ser- 
mons must  have  been  written  there.  The  latest  inhabitant 
alone  —  he  by  whose  translation  to  paradise  the  dwelling  was 
left  vacant  —  had  penned  nearly  three  thousand  discourses, 
besides  the  better,  if  not  the  greater,  number  that  gushed  liv- 
ing from  his  lips.  How  often,  no  doubt,  had  he  paced  to  and 
fro  along  the  avenue,  attuning  his  meditations  to  the  sighs  and 
gentle  murmurs,  and  deep  and  solemn  peals  of  the  wind  among 
the  lofty  tops  of  the  trees !  In  that  variety  of  natural  utterances 
he  could  find  something  accordant  with  every  passage  of  his 
sermon,  were  it  of  tenderness  or  reverential  fear.  The  boughs 
over  my  head  seemed  shadowy  with  solemn  thoughts  as  well  as 
with  rustling  leaves.  I  took  shame  to  myself  for  having  been 
so  long  a  writer  of  idle  stories,  and  ventured  to  hope  that 
wisdom  would  descend  upon  me  with  the  falling  leaves  of  the 
avenue,  and  that  I  should  light  upon  an  intellectual  treasure 
in  the  Old  Manse  well  worth  those  hoards  of  long-hidden  gold 
which  people  seek  for  in  moss-grown  houses.  Profound  treatises 
of  morality;  a  layman's  unprofessional  and  therefore  unprej- 
udiced views  of  religion;  histories  (such  as  Bancroft  might  have 
written  had  he  taken  up  his  abode  here  as  he  once  purposed) 
bright  with  picture,  gleaming  over  a  depth  of  philosophic 
thought,  —  these  were  the  works  that  might  fitly  have  flowed 
from  such  a  retirement.  In  the  humblest  event  I  resolved  at 
least  to  achieve  a  novel  that  should  evolve  some  deep  lesson 
and  should  possess  physical  substance  enough  to  stand  alone. 
In  furtherance  of  my  design,  and  as  if  to  leave  me  no  pretext 
for  not  fulfilling  it,  there  was  in  the  rear  of  the  house  the  most 
delightful  little  nook  of  a  study  that  ever  afforded  its  snug 
seclusion  to  a  scholar.  It  was  here  that  Emerson  wrote  Nature; 
for  he  was  then  an  inhabitant  of  the  Manse,  and  used  to  watch 
the  Assyrian  dawn  and  Paphian  sunset  and  moonrise^  from 
the  summit  of  our  eastern  hill.  When  I  first  saw  the  room  its 
walls  were  blackened  with  the  smoke  of  unnumbered  years, 

*  Nature,  Chapter  iii.  "  Give  me  health  and  a  day,  and  I  will  make  the  pomp 
of  emperors  ridiculous.  The  dawn  is  my  Assyria;  the  sunset  and  moonrise  my 
Paphos,  and  unimaginable  realms  of  faerie  ..." 


214  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

and  made  still  blacker  by  the  grim  prints  of  Puritan  ministers 
that  hung  around.  These  worthies  looked  strangely  like  bad  an- 
gels, or  at  least  like  men  who  had  wrestled  so  continually  and 
so  sternly  with  the  devil  that  somewhat  of  his  sooty  fierceness 
had  been  imparted  to  their  own  visages.  They  had  all  vanished 
now;  a  cheerful  coat  of  paint  and  gold  en- tin  ted  paper-hangings 
lighted  up  the  small  apartment;  while  the  shadow  of  a  willow- 
tree  that  swept  against  the  overhanging  eaves  attempered  the 
cheery  western  sunshine.  In  place  of  the  grim  prints  there  was 
the  sweet  and  lovely  head  of  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas  and 
two  pleasant  little  pictures  of  the  Lake  of  Como.  The  only 
other  decorations  were  a  purple  vase  of  flowers,  always  fresh, 
and  a  bronze  one  containing  graceful  ferns.  My  books  (few, 
and  by  no  means  choice;  for  they  were  chiefly  such  waifs  as 
chance  had  thrown  in  my  way)  stood  in  order  about  the  room, 
seldom  to  be  disturbed. 

The  study  had  three  windows,  set  with  little,  old-fashioned 
panes  of  glass,  each  with  a  crack  across  it.  The  two  on  the 
western  side  looked,  or  rather  peeped,  between  the  willow 
branches  down  into  the  orchard,  with  glimpses  of  the  river 
through  the  trees.  The  third,  facing  northward,  commanded 
a  broader  view  of  the  river  at  a  spot  where  its  hitherto  obscure 
waters  gleam  forth  into  the  light  of  history.  It  was  at  this 
window  that  the  clergyman  who  then  dwelt  in  the  Manse  stood 
watching  the  outbreak  of  a  long  and  deadly  struggle  between 
two  nations;  he  saw  the  irregular  array  of  his  parishioners  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  river  and  the  glittering  line  of  the  British 
on  the  hither  bank.  He  awaited  in  an  agony  of  suspense  the 
rattle  of  the  musketry.  It  came,  and  there  needed  but  a  gen- 
tle wind  to  sweep  the  battle  smoke  around  this  quiet  house. 

Perhaps  the  reader,  whom  I  cannot  help  considering  as  my 
guest  in  the  Old  Manse  and  entitled  to  all  courtesy  in  the  way 
of  sight-showing,  —  perhaps  he  will  choose  to  take  a  nearer 
view  of  the  memorable  spot.  We  stand  now  on  the  river's 
brink.  It  may  well  be  called  the  Concord,  the  river  of  peace 
and  quietness;  for  it  is  certainly  the  most  unexcitable  and 
sluggish  stream  that  ever  loitered  imperceptibly  towards  its 
eternity  —  the  sea.  Positively,  I  had  lived  three  weeks  beside 
it  before  it  grew  quite  clear  to  my  perception  which  way  the 
current  flowed.  It  never  has  a  vivacious  aspect  except  when  a 


THE  OLD  MANSE  215 

northwestern  breeze  is  vexing  its  surface  on  a  sunshiny  day. 
From  the  incurable  indolence  of  its  nature,  the  stream  is 
happily  incapable  of  becoming  the  slave  of  human  ingenuity, 
as  is  the  fate  of  so  many  a  wild,  free  mountain  torrent.  While 
all  things  else  iare  compelled  to  subserve  some  useful  purpose, 
it  idles  its  sluggish  Hfe  away  in  lazy  hberty,  without  turning  a 
solitary  spindle  or  affording  even  water-power  enough  to  grind 
the  com  that  grows  upon  its  banks.  The  torpor  of  its  movement 
allows  it  nowhere  a  bright,  pebbly  shore,  nor  so  much  as  a  nar- 
row strip  of  glistening  sand,  in  any  part  of  its  course.  It  slum- 
bers between  broad  prairies,  kissing  the  long  meadow  grass, 
and  bathes  the  overhanging  boughs  of  elder  bushes  and  wil- 
lows or  the  roots  of  elms  and  ash-trees  and  clumps  of  maples. 
Flags  and  rushes  grow  along  its  plashy  shore;  the  yellow 
water-lily  spreads  its  broad,  flat  leaves  on  the  margin;  and  the 
fragrant  white  pond-lily  abounds,  generally  selecting  a  posi- 
tion just  so  far  from  the  river's  brink  that  it  cannot  be  grasped 
save  at  the  hazard  of  plunging  in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  perfect  flower  derives  its  loveliness 
and  perfume,  springing  as  it  does  from  the  black  mud  over 
which  the  river  sleeps,  and  where  lurk  the  slimy  eel  and 
speckled  frog  and  the  mud  turtle,  whom  continual  washing 
cannot  cleanse.  It  is  the  very  same  black  mud  out  of  which 
the  yellow  lily  sucks  its  obscene  life  and  noisome  odor.  Thus 
we  see,  too,  in  the  world  that  some  persons  assimilate  only 
what  is  ugly  and  evil  from  the  same  moral  circumstances  which 
supply  good  and  beautiful  results  —  the  fragrance  of  celestial 
flowers  —  to  the  daily  life  of  others. 

The  reader  must  not,  from  any  testimony  of  mine,  contract 
a  dislike  towards  our  slumberous  stream.  In  the  Hght  of  a  calm 
and  golden  sunset  it  becomes  lovely  beyond  expression;  the 
more  lovely  for  the  quietude  that  so  well  accords  with  the  hour, 
when  even  the  wind,  after  blustering  all  day  long,  usually 
hushes  itself  to  rest.  Each  tree  and  rock,  and  every  blade  of 
grass,  is  distinctly  imaged,  and,  however  unsightly  in  reality, 
assumes  ideal  beauty  in  the  reflection.  The  minutest  things  of 
earth  and  the  broad  aspect  of  the  firmament  are  pictured 
equally  without  effort  and  with  the  same  felicity  of  success. 
All  the  sky  glows  downward  at  our  feet;  the  rich  clouds  float 
through  the  unruffled  bosom  of  the  stream  like  heavenly 


2i6  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

thoughts  through  a  peaceful  heart.  We  will  not,  then,  malign 
our  river  as  gross  and  impure  while  it  can  glorify  itself  with  so 
adequate  a  picture  of  the  heaven  that  broods  above  it;  or,  if 
we  remember  its  tawny  hue  and  the  muddiness  of  its  bed,  let 
it  be  a  symbol  that  the  earthliest  human  soul  has  an  infinite 
spiritual  capacity  and  may  contain  the  better  world  within  its 
depths.  But,  indeed,  the  same  lesson  might  be  drawn  out  of 
any  mud  puddle  in  the  streets  of  a  city;  and,  being  taught  us 
everywhere,  it  must  be  true. 

Come,  we  have  pursued  a  somewhat  devious  track  in  our 
walk  to  the  battle-ground.  Here  we  are,  at  the  point  where  the 
river  was  crossed  by  the  old  bridge,  the  possession  of  which 
was  the  immediate  object  of  the  contest.  On  the  hither  side 
grow  two  or  three  elms,  throwing  a  wide  circumference  of 
shade,  but  which  must  have  been  planted  at  some  period 
within  the  threescore  years  and  ten  that  have  passed  since 
the  battle  day.  On  the  farther  shore,  overhung  by  a  clump 
of  elder  bushes,  we  discern  the  stone  abutment  of  the  bridge. 
Looking  down  into  the  river,  I  once  discovered  some  heavy 
fragments  of  the  timbers,  all  green  with  half  a  century's  growth 
of  water  moss;  for  during  that  length  of  time  the  tramp  of 
horses  and  human  footsteps  has  ceased  along  this  ancient 
highway.  The  stream  has  here  about  the  breadth  of  twenty 
strokes  of  a  swimmer's  arm,  —  a  space  not  too  wide  when  the 
bullets  were  whistling  across.  Old  people  who  dwell  hereabouts 
will  point  out  the  very  spots  on  the  western  bank  where  our 
countrymen  fell  down  and  died;  and  on  this  side  of  the  river  an 
obelisk  of  granite  has  grown  up  from  the  soil  that  was  fertilized 
with  British  blood.  The  monument,  not  more  than  twenty 
feet  in  height,  is  such  as  it  befitted  the  inhabitants  of  a  village 
to  erect  in  illustration  of  a  matter  of  local  interest  rather  than 
what  was  suitable  to  commemorate  an  epoch  of  national  his- 
tory. Still,  by  the  fathers  of  the  village  this  famous  deed  was 
done;  and  their  descendants  might  rightfully  claim  the  privi- 
lege of  building  a  memorial. 

A  humbler  token  of  the  fight,  yet  a  more  interesting  one  than 
the  granite  obelisk,  may  be  seen  close  under  the  stone-wall 
which  separates  the  battle-ground  from  the  precincts  of  the 
parsonage.  It  is  the  grave  —  marked  by  a  small,  mossgrown 
fragment  of  stone  at  the  head  and  another  at  the  foot  —  the 


THE  OLD  MANSE  217 

grave  of  two  British  soldiers  who  were  slain  in  the  skirmish, 
and  have  ever  since  slept  peacefully  where  Zechariah  Brown 
and  Thomas  Davis  buried  them.  Soon  was  their  warfare  ended ; 
a  weary  night  march  from  Boston,  a  rattling  volley  of  musketry 
across  the  river,  and  then  these  many  years  of  rest.  In  the  long 
procession  of  slain  invaders  who  passed  into  eternity  from  the 
battle-fields  of  the  revolution,  these  two  nameless  soldiers  led 
the  way. 

Lowell,  the  poet,  as  we  were  once  standing  over  this  grave, 
told  me  a  tradition  in  reference  to  one  of  the  inhabitants  below. 
The  story  has  something  deeply  impressive,  though  its  circiun- 
stances  cannot  altogether  be  reconciled  with  probability.  A 
youth  in  the  service  of  the  clergyman  happened  to  be  chopping 
wood,  that  April  morning,  at  the  back  door  of  the  Manse,  and 
when  the  noise  of  battle  rang  from  side  to  side  of  the  bridge  he 
hastened  across  the  intervening  field  to  see  what  might  be 
going  forward.  It  is  rather  strange,  by  the  way,  that  this  lad 
should  have  been  so  diligently  at  work  when  the  whole  popu- 
lation of  town  and  country  were  startled  out  of  their  customary 
business  by  the  advance  of  the  British  troops.  Be  that  as  it 
might,  the  tradition  says  that  the  lad  now  left  his  task  and 
hurried  to  the  battle-field  with  the  axe  still  in  his  hand.  The 
British  had  by  this  time  retreated,  the  Americans  were  in  pur- 
suit; and  the  late  scene  of  strife  was  thus  deserted  by  both 
parties.  Two  soldiers  lay  on  the  ground  —  one  was  a  corpse; 
but,  as  the  young  New  Englander  drew  nigh,  the  other  Briton 
raised  himself  paiafully  upon  his  hands  and  knees  and  gave 
a  ghastly  siare  mto  his  face.  The  boy,  —  it  must  have  been  a 
nervous  impulse,  without  purpose,  without  thought,  and  be- 
tokening a  sensitive  and  impressible  nature  rather  than  a 
hardened  one,  —  the  boy  uplifted  his  axe  and  dealt  the 
wounded  soldier  a  fierce  and  fatal  blow  upon  the  head. 

I  could  wish  that  the  grave  might  be  opened;  for  I  would 
fain  know  whether  either  of  the  skeleton  soldiers  has  the  mark 
of  an  axe  in  his  skull.  The  story  comes  home  to  me  like  truth. 
Oftentimes,  as  an  intellectual  and  moral  exercise,  I  have  sought 
to  follow  that  poor  youth  through  his  subsequent  career,  and 
observe  how  his  soul  was  tortured  by  the  blood  stain,  con- 
tracted as  it  had  been  before  the  long  custom  of  war  had  robbed 
human  life  of  its  sanctity,  and  while  it  still  seemed  murderous 


2i8  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

to  slay  a  brother  man.  This  one  circumstance  has  borne  more 
fruit  for  me  than  all  that  history  tells  us  of  the  fight. 

Many  strangers  come  in  the  summer  time  to  view  the  battle- 
ground. For  my  own  part,  I  have  never  found  my  imagination 
much  excited  by  this  or  any  other  scene  of  historic  celebrity; 
nor  would  the  placid  margin  of  the  river  have  lost  any  of  its 
charm  for  me  had  men  never  fought  and  died  there.  There  is  a 
wilder  interest  in  the  tract  of  land  —  perhaps  a  hundred  yards 
in  breadth  —  which  extends  between  the  battle-field  and  the 
northern  face  of  our  Old  Manse,  with  its  contiguous  avenue 
and  orchard.  Here,  in  some  unknown  age,  before  the  white 
man  came,  stood  an  Indian  village,  convenient  to  the  river, 
whence  its  inhabitants  must  have  drawn  so  large  a  part  of  their 
subsistence.  The  site  is  identified  by  the  spear  and  arrow  heads, 
the  chisels,  and  other  implements  of  war,  labor,  and  the  chase, 
which  the  plough  turns  up  from  the  soil.  You  see  a  splinter  of 
stone,  half  hidden  beneath  a  sod;  it  looks  like  nothing  worthy  of 
note;  but,  if  you  have  faith  enough  to  pick  it  up,  behold  a  relic! 
Thoreau,  who  has  a  strange  faculty  of  finding  what  the  Indians 
have  left  behind  them,  first  set  me  on  the  search;  and  I  after- 
wards enriched  myself  with  some  very  perfect  specimens,  so 
rudely  wrought  that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  chance  had  fash- 
ioned them.  Their  great  charm  consists  in  this  rudeness  and  in 
the  individuality  of  each  article,  so  different  from  the  produc- 
tions of  civilized  machinery,  which  shapes  everything  on  one 
pattern.  There  is  exquisite  delight,  too,  in  picking  up  for  one's 
self  an  arrowhead  that  was  dropped  centuries  ago  and  has 
never  been  handled  since,  and  which  we  thus  receive  directly 
from  the  hand  of  the  red  hunter,  who  purposed  to  shoot  it  at 
his  game  or  at  an  enemy.  Such  an  incident  builds  up  again  the 
Indian  village  and  its  encircling  forest,  and  recalls  to  life  the 
painted  chiefs  and  warriors,  the  squaws  at  their  household  toil, 
and  the  children  sporting  among  the  wigwams,  while  the  little 
wind-rocked  pappoose  swings  from  the  branch  of  the  tree.  It 
can  hardly  be  told  whether  it  is  a  joy  or  a  pain,  after  such  a 
momentary  vision,  to  gaze  around  in  the  broad  daylight  of 
reality  and  see  stone  fences,  white  houses,  potato  fields,  and 
men  doggedly  hoeing  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and  homespun 
pantaloons.  But  this  is  nonsense.  The  Old  Manse  is  better 
than  a  thousand  wigwams. 


THE  OLD  MANSE  219 

The  Old  Manse !  We  had  almost  forgotten  it,  but  will  return 
thither  through  the  orchard.  This  was  set  out  by  the  last 
clergyman,  in  the  decHne  of  his  life,  when  the  neighbors 
laughed  at  the  hoary-headed  man  for  planting  trees  from  which 
he  could  have  no  prospect  of  gathering  fruit.  Even  had  that 
been  the  case,  there  was  only  so  much  the  better  motive  for 
planting  them,  in  the  pure  and  unselfish  hope  of  benefiting  his 
successors,  —  an  end  so  seldom  achieved  by  more  ambitious 
efforts.  But  the  old  minister,  before  reaching  his  patriarchal 
age  of  ninety,  ate  the  apples  from  this  orchard  during  many 
years,  and  added  silver  and  gold  to  his  annual  stipend  by  dis- 
posing of  the  superfluity.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  him  walking 
among  the  trees  in  the  quiet  afternoons  of  early  autumn  and 
picking  up  here  and  there  a  windfall,  while  he  observes  how 
heavily  the  branches  are  weighed  down,  and  computes  the 
number  of  empty  flour  barrels  that  will  be  filled  by  their  bur- 
den. He  loved  each  tree,  doubtless,  as  if  it  had  been  his  own 
child.  An  orchard  has  a  relation  to  mankind,  and  readily  con- 
nects itself  with  matters  of  the  heart.  The  trees  possess  a 
domestic  character;  they  have  lost  the  wild  nature  of  their  for- 
est kindred,  and  have  grown  humanized  by  receiving  the  care 
of  man  as  well  as  by  contributing  to  his  wants.  There  is  so 
much  indi\dduality  of  character,  too,  among  apple-trees  that 
it  gives  them  an  additional  claim  to  be  the  objects  of  human 
interest.  One  is  harsh  and  crabbed  in  its  manifestations;  an- 
other gives  us  fruit  as  mild  as  charity.  One  is  churlish  and 
illiberal,  evidently  grudging  the  few  apples  that  it  bears;  an- 
other exhausts  itself  in  free-hearted  benevolence.  The  variety 
of  grotesque  shapes  into  which  apple-trees  contort  themselves 
has  its  effect  on  those  who  get  acquainted  with  them:  they 
stretch  out  their  crooked  branches,  and  take  such  hold  of  the 
imagination  that  we  remember  them  as  humorists  and  odd- 
fellows. And  what  is  more  melancholy  than  the  old  apple-trees 
that  linger  about  the  spot  where  once  stood  a  homestead,  but 
where  there  is  now  only  a  ruined  chimney  rising  out  of  a  grassy 
and  weed-grown  cellar?  They  offer  their  fruit  to  every  way- 
farer, —  apples  that  are  bitter  sweet  with  the  moral  of  Time's 
vicissitude. 

I  have  met  with  no  other  such  pleasant  trouble  in  the  world 
as  that  of  finding  myself,  with  only  the  two  or  three  mouths 


220  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

which  it  was  my  privilege  to  feed,  the  sole  inheritor  of  the  old 
clergyman's  wealth  of  fruits.  Throughout  the  summer  there 
were  cherries  and  currants;  and  then  came  autumn,  with  his 
immense  burden  of  apples,  dropping  them  continually  from  his 
overladen  shoulders  as  he  trudged  along.  In  the  stillest  after- 
noon, if  I  listened,  the  thump  of  a  great  apple  was  audible, 
falling  without  a  breath  of  wind,  from  the  mere  necessity  of 
perfect  ripeness.  And,  besides,  there*  were  pear-trees,  that 
flung  down  bushels  upon  bushels  of  heavy  pears;  and  peach- 
trees,  which,  in  a  good  year,  tormented  me  with  peaches, 
neither  to  be  eaten  nor  kept,  nor,  without  labor  and  perplexity, 
to  be  given  away.  The  idea  of  an  infinite  generosity  and  ex- 
haustless  bounty  on  the  part  of  our  Mother  Nature  was  well 
worth  obtaining  through  such  cares  as  these.  That  feeling  can 
be  enjoyed  in  perfection  only  by  the  natives  of  summer  islands, 
where  the  bread-fruit,  the  cocoa,  the  palm,  and  the  orange 
grow  spontaneously  and  hold  forth  the  ever-ready  meal;  but 
likewise  almost  as  well  by  a  man  long  habituated  to  city  life, 
who  plunges  into  such  a  solitude  as  that  of  the  Old  Manse, 
where  he  plucks  the  fruit  of  trees  that  he  did  not  plant,  and 
which  therefore,  to  my  heterodox  taste,  bear  the  closest  re- 
semblance to  those  that  grew  in  Eden.  It  has  been  an  apothegm 
these  five  thousand  years,  that  toil  sweetens  the  bread  it  earns. 
For  my  part  (speaking  from  hard  experience,  acquired  while 
belaboring  the  rugged  furrows  of  Brook  Farm),  I  reUsh  best 
the  free  gifts  of  Providence. 

Not  that  it  can  be  disputed  that  the  light  toil  requisite  to 
cultivate  a  moderately-sized  garden  imparts  such  zest  to 
kitchen  vegetables  as  is  never  found  in  those  of  the  market 
gardener.  Childless  men,  if  they  would  know  something  of  the 
bliss  of  paternity,  should  plant  a  seed,  —  be  it  squash,  bean, 
Indian  corn,  or  perhaps  a  mere  flower  or  worthless  weed,  — 
should  plant  it  with  their  own  hands,  and  nurse  it  from  infancy 
to  maturity  altogether  by  their  own  care.  If  there  be  not  too 
many  of  them,  each  individual  plant  becomes  an  object  of 
separate  interest.  My  garden,  that  skirted  the  avenue  of  the 
Manse,  was  of  precisely  the  right  extent.  An  hour  or  two  of 
morning  labor  was  all  that  it  required.  But  I  used  to  visit  and 
revisit  it  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  stand  in  deep  contemplation 
over  my  vegetable  progeny  with  a  love  that  nobody  could  share 


THE  OLD  MANSE  221 

or  conceive  of  who  had  never  taken  part  in  the  process  of  crea- 
tion. It  was  one  of  the  most  bewitching  sights  in  the  world  to 
observe  a  hill  of  beans  thrusting  aside  the  soil,  or  a  row  of  early 
peas  just  peeping  forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a  line  of  delicate 
green.  Later  in  the  season  the  humming-birds  were  attracted 
by  the  blossoms  of  a  peculiar  variety  of  bean;  and  they  were  a 
joy  to  me,  those  little  spiritual  visitants,  for  deigning  to  sip 
airy  food  out  of  my  nectar  cups.  Multitudes  of  bees  used  to 
bury  themselves  in  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  summer  squashes. 
This,  too,  was  a  deep  satisfaction;  although  when  they  had 
laden  themselves  with  sweets  they  flew  away  to  some  unknown 
hive,  which  would  give  back  nothing  in  requital  of  what  my 
garden  had  contributed.  But  I  was  glad  thus  to  fling  a  bene- 
faction upon  the  passing  breeze  with  the  certainty  that  some- 
body must  profit  by  it,  and  that  there  would  be  a  little  more 
honey  in  the  world  to  allay  the  sourness  and  bitterness  which 
mankind  is  always  complaining  of.  Yes,  indeed ;  my  life  was  the 
sweeter  for  that  honey. 

Speaking  of  summer  squashes,  I  must  say  a  word  of  their 
beautiful  and  varied  forms.  They  presented  an  endless  diver- 
sity of  urns  and  vases,  shallow  or  deep,  scalloped  or  plain, 
moulded  in  patterns  which  a  sculptor  would  do  well  to  copy, 
since  Art  has  never  invented  anything  more  graceful.  A  hun- 
dred squashes  in  the  garden  were  worthy,  in  my  eyes  at  least, 
of  being  rendered  indestructible  in  marble.  If  ever  Providence 
(but  I  know  it  never  will)  should  assign  me  a  superfluity  of 
gold,  part  of  it  shall  be  expended  for  a  service  of  plate,  or  most 
deHcate  porcelain,  to  be  wrought  into  the  shapes  of  summer 
squashes  gathered  from  vines  which  I  will  plant  with  my  own 
hands.  As  dishes  for  containing  vegetables  they  would  be 
peculiarly  appropriate. 

But  not  merely  the  squeamish  love  of  the  beautiful  was 
gratified  by  my  toil  in  the  kitchen  garden.  There  was  a 
hearty  enjoyment,  likewise,  in  observing  the  growth  of  the 
crook-necked  winter  squashes,  from  the  first  little  bulb,  with 
the  withered  blossom  adhering  to  it,  until  they  lay  strewn  upon 
the  soil,  big,  round  fellows,  hiding  their  heads  beneath  the 
leaves,  but  turning  up  their  great  yellow  rotundities  to  the 
noontide  sun.  Gazing  at  them,  I  felt  that  by  my  agency  some- 
thing worth  living  for  had  been  done.  A  new  substance  was 


222  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

born  into  the  world.  They  were  real  and  tangible  existences, 
which  the  mind  could  seize  hold  of  and  rejoice  in.  A  cabbage, 
too,  —  especially  the  early  Dutch  cabbage,  which  swells  to  a 
monstrous  circumference,  until  its  ambitious  heart  often  bursts 
asunder,  —  is  a  matter  to  be  proud  of  when  we  can  claim  a 
share  with  the  earth  and  sky  in  producing  it.  But,  after  all, 
the  hugest  pleasure  is  reserved  until  these  vegetable  children 
of  ours  are  smoking  on  the  table,  and  we,  like  Saturn,  make  a 
meal  of  them. 

What  with  the  river,  the  battle-field,  the  orchard  and  the 
garden,  the  reader  begins  to  despair  of  finding  his  way  back  into 
the  Old  Manse.  But  in  agreeable  weather  it  is  the  truest  hos- 
pitality to  keep  him  out-of-doors.  I  never  grew  quite  acquainted 
with  my  habitation  till  a  long  spell  of  sulky  rain  had  confined 
me  beneath  its  roof.  There  could  not  be  a  more  sombre  aspect 
of  external  Nature  than  as  then  seen  from  the  windows  of  my 
study.  The  great  willow-tree  had  caught  and  retained  among 
its  leaves  a  whole  cataract  of  water,  to  be  shaken  down  at 
intervals  by  the  frequent  gusts  of  wind.  All  day  long,  and  for  a 
week  together,  the  rain  was  drip-drip-dripping  and  splash- 
splash-splashing  from  the  eaves,  and  bubbling  and  foaming 
into  the  tubs  beneath  the  spouts.  The  old,  unpainted  shingles 
of  the  house  and  out-buildings  were  black  with  moisture;  and 
the  mosses  of  ancient  growth  upon  the  walls  looked  green  and 
fresh,  as  if  they  were  the  newest  things  and  afterthought  of 
Time.  The  usually  mirrored  surface  of  the  river  was  blurred 
by  an  infinity  of  raindrops;  the  whole  landscape  had  a  com- 
pletely water-soaked  appearance,  conveying  the  impression 
that  the  earth  was  wet  through  like  a  sponge;  while  the  summit 
of  a  wooded  hill,  about  a  mile  distant,  was  enveloped  in  a  dense 
mist,  where  the  demon  of  the  tempest  seemed  to  have  his  abid- 
ing-place and  to  be  plotting  still  direr  inclemencies. 

Nature  has  no  kindness,  no  hospitality,  during  a  rain.  In  the 
fiercest  heat  of  sunny  days  she  retains  a  secret  mercy,  and  wel- 
comes the  wayfarer  to  shady  nooks  of  the  woods  whither  the 
sun  cannot  penetrate;  but  she  provides  no  shelter  against  her 
storms.  It  makes  us  shiver  to  think  of  those  deep,  umbrageous 
tecesses,  those  overshadowing  banks,  where  we  found  such 
enjoyment  during  the  sultry  afternoons.  Not  a  twig  of  foliage 
there  but  would  dash  a  little  shower  into  our  faces.   Looking 


THE  OLD  MANSE  223 

reproachfully  towards  the  impenetrable  sky,  —  if  sky  there 
be  above  that  dismal  uniformity  of  cloud,  —  we  are  apt  to 
murmur  against  the  whole  system  of  the  universe,  since  it 
involves  the  extinction  of  so  many  summer  days  in  so  short  a 
life  by  the  hissing  and  spluttering  rain.  In  such  spells  of 
weather  —  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  such  weather  came  —  Eve's 
bower  in  paradise  must  have  been  but  a  cheerless  and  aguish 
kind  of  shelter,  nowise  comparable  to  the  old  parsonage,  which 
had  resources  of  its  own  to  beguile  the  week's  imprisonment. 
The  idea  of  sleeping  on  a  couch  of  wet  roses ! 

Happy  the  man  who  in  a  rainy  day  can  betake  himself  to  a 
huge  garret,  stored,  like  that  of  the  Manse,  with  lumber  that 
each  generation  has  left  behind  it  from  a  period  before  the 
revolution.  Our  garret  was  an  arched  hall,  dimly  illuminated 
through  small  and  dusty  windows;  it  was  but  a  twilight  at  the 
best;  and  there  were  nooks,  or  rather  caverns,  of  deep  obscurity, 
the  secrets  of  which  I  never  learned,  being  too  reverent  of  their 
dust  and  cobwebs.  The  beams  and  rafters,  roughly  hewn  and 
with  strips  of  bark  still  on  them,  and  the  rude  masonry  of  the 
chimneys,  made  the  garret  look  wild  and  uncivilized,  —  an 
aspect  unlike  what  was  seen  elsewhere  in  the  quiet  and  deco- 
rous old  house.  But  on  one  side  there  was  a  little  whitewashed 
apartment  which  bore  the  traditionary  title  of  the  Saint's 
Chamber,  because  holy  men  in  their  youth  had  slept  and 
studied  and  prayed  there.  With  its  elevated  retirement,  its 
one  window,  its  small  fireplace,  and  its  closet,  convenient  for 
an  oratory,  it  was  the  very  spot  where  a  young  man  might 
inspire  himself  with  solemn  enthusiasm  and  cherish  saintly 
dreams.  The  occupants,  at  various  epochs,  had  left  brief 
records  and  ejaculations  inscribed  upon  the  walls.  There,  too, 
hung  a  tattered  and  shrivelled  roll  of  canvas,  which  on  inspec- 
tion proved  to  be  the  forcibly  wrought  picture  of  a  clergyman,  in 
wig,  band,  and  gown,  holding  a  Bible  in  his  hand.  As  I  turned 
his  face  towards  the  light  he  eyed  me  with  an  air  of  authority 
such  as  men  of  his  profession  seldom  assume  in  our  days.  The 
original  had  been  pastor  of  the  parish  more  than  a  century 
ago,  a  friend  of  Whitefield,  and  almost  his  equal  in  fervid  elo- 
quence. I  bowed  before  the  effigy  of  the  dignified  divine,  and 
felt  as  if  I  had  now  met  face  to  face  with  the  ghost  by  whom, 
as  there  was  reason  to  apprehend,  the  Manse  was  haunted. 


224  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

Houses  of  any  antiquity  in  New  England  are  so  invariably 
possessed  with  spirits  that  the  matter  seems  hardly  worth 
alluding  to.  Our  ghost  used  to  heave  deep  sighs  in  a  particular 
corner  of  the  parlor,  and  sometimes  rustled  paper,  as  if  he 
were  turning  over  a  sermon  in  the  long  upper  entry,  —  where 
nevertheless  he  was  invisible  in  spite  of  the  bright  moonshine 
that  fell  through  the  eastern  window.  Not  improbably  he 
wished  me  to  edit  and  publish  a  selection  from  a  chest  full  of 
manuscript  discourses  that  stood  in  the  garret.  Once,  while 
Hillard  and  other  friends  sat  talking  with  us  in  the  twiUght, 
there  came  a  rustHng  noise  as  of  a  minister's  silk  gown,  sweep- 
ing through  the  very  midst  of  the  company  so  closely  as  almost 
to  brush  against  the  chairs.  Still  there  was  nothing  visible. 
A  yet  stranger  business  was  that  of  a  ghostly  servant  maid, 
who  used  to  be  heard  in  the  kitchen  at  deepest  midnight, 
grinding  coffee,  cooking,  ironing,  —  performing,  in  short,  all 
kinds  of  domestic  labor,  —  although  no  traces  of  anything 
accomplished  could  be  detected  the  next  morning.  Some  neg- 
lected duty  of  her  servitude  —  some  ill-starched  ministerial 
band  —  disturbed  the  poor  damsel  in  her  grave  and  kept  her 
at  work  without  any  wages. 

But  to  return  from  this  digression.  A  part  of  my  predeces- 
sor's library  was  stored  in  the  garret,  —  no  unfit  receptacle 
indeed  for  such  dreary  trash  as  comprised  the  greater  number 
of  volumes.  The  old  books  would  have  been  worth  nothing  at 
an  auction.  In  this  venerable  garret,  however,  they  possessed 
an  interest,  quite  apart  from  their  literary  value,  as  heirlooms, 
many  of  which  had  been  transmitted  down  through  a  series  of 
consecrated  hands  from  the  days  of  the  mighty  Puritan  divines. 
Autographs  of  famous  names  were  to  be  seen  in  faded  ink  on 
some  of  their  flyleaves;  and  there  were  marginal  observations 
or  interpolated  pages  closely  covered  with  manuscript  in  illegi- 
ble shorthand,  perhaps  concealing  matter  of  profound  truth  and 
wisdom.  The  world  will  never  be  the  better  for  it.  A  few  of  the 
books  were  Latin  folios,  written  by  Catholic  authors;  others 
demolished  Papistry,  as  with  a  sledge-hammer,  in  plain  English. 
A  dissertation  on  the  book  of  Job  —  which  only  Job  himself 
could  have  had  patience  to  read  —  filled  at  least  a  score  of 
small,  thickset  quartos,  at  the  rate  of  two  or  three  volumes  to 
a  chapter.  Then  there  was  a  vast  folio  body  of  divinity  —  too 


THE  OLD  MANSE  225 

corpulent  a  body,  it  might  be  feared,  to  comprehend  the 
spiritual  element  of  religion.  Volumes  of  this  form  dated  back 
two  hundred  years  or  more,  and  were  generally  bound  in  black 
leather,  exhibiting  precisely  such  an  appearance  as  we  should 
attribute  to  books  of  enchantment.  Others  equally  antique 
were  of  a  size  proper  to  be  carried  in  the  large  waistcoat  pockets 
of  old  times,  —  diminutive,  but  as  black  as  their  bulkier 
brethren,  and  abundantly  interfused  with  Greek  and  Latin 
quotations.  These  little  old  volumes  impressed  me  as  if  they 
had  been  intended  for  very  large  ones,  but  had  been  unfor- 
tunately blighted  at  an  early  stage  of  their  growth. 

The  rain  pattered  upon  the  roof  and  the  sky  gloomed 
through  the  dusty  garret  windows,  while  I  burrowed  among 
these  venerable  books  in  search  of  any  living  thought  which 
should  burn  Hke  a  coal  of  fire,  or  glow  like  an  inextinguishable 
gem,  beneath  the  dead  trumpery  that  had  long  hidden  it.  But 
I  found  no  such  treasure;  all  was  dead  alike;  and  I  could  not 
but  muse  deeply  and  wonderingly  upon  the  humiHating  fact 
that  the  works  of  man's  intellect  decay  like  those  of  his  hands. 
Thought  grows  mouldy.  What  was  good  and  nourishing  food 
for  the  spirits  of  one  generation  affords  no  sustenance  for  the 
next.  Books  of  rehgion,  however,  cannot  be  considered  a  fair 
test  of  the  enduring  and  vivacious  properties  of  human  thought, 
because  such  books  so  seldom  really  touch  upon  their  ostensible 
subject,  and  have,  therefore,  so  Httle  business  to  be  written  at 
all.  So  long  as  an  unlettered  soul  can  attain  to  saving  grace, 
there  would  seem  to  be  no  deadly  error  in  holding  theological 
libraries  to  be  accumulations  of,  for  the  most  part,  stupendous 
impertinence. 

Many  of  the  books  had  accrued  in  the  latter  years  of  the  last 
clerg>Tnan's  lifetime.  These  threatened  to  be  of  even  less  inter- 
est than  the  elder  works,  a  century  hence,  to  any  curious  in- 
quirer who  should  then  rummage  them  as  I  was  doing  now. 
Volumes  of  the  Liberal  Preacher  and  Christian  Examiner,  oc- 
casional sermons,  controversial  pamphlets,  tracts,  and  other 
productions  of  a  Hke  fugitive  nature  took  the  place  of  the  thick 
and  heavy  volumes  of  past  time.  In  a  physical  point  of  view 
there  was  much  the  same  difference  as  between  a  feather  and  a 
lump  of  lead;  but,  intellectually  regarded,  the  specific  gravity 
of  old  and  new  was  about  upon  a  par.   Both  also  were  alike 


226  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

frigid.  The  elder  books,  nevertheless,  seemed  to  have  been 
earnestly  written,  and  might  be  conceived  to  have  possessed 
warmth  at  some  former  period;  although,  with  the  lapse  of 
time,  the  heated  masses  had  cooled  down  even  to  the  freezing 
point.  The  frigidity  of  the  modern  productions,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  characteristic  and  inherent,  and  evidently  had  little 
to  do  with  the  writer's  quaHties  of  mind  and  heart.  In  fine,  of 
this  whole  dusty  heap  of  literature  I  tossed  aside  all  the  sacred 
part,  and  felt  myself  none  the  less  a  Christian  for  eschewing  it. 
There  appeared  no  hope  of  either  mounting  to  the  better  world 
on  a  Gothic  staircase  of  ancient  folios  or  of  flying  thither  on 
the  wings  of  a  modem  tract. 

Nothing,  strange  to  say,  retained  any  sap  except  what  had 
been  written  for  the  passing  day  and  year  without  the  remotest 
pretension  or  idea  of  permanence.  There  were  a  few  old  news- 
papers, and  still  older  almanacs,  which  reproduced  to  my  men- 
tal eye  the  epochs  when  they  had  issued  from  the  press  with 
a  distinctness  that  was  altogether  unaccountable.  It  was  as  if 
I  had  found  bits  of  magic  looking-glass  among  the  books,  with 
the  images  of  a  vanished  century  in  them.  I  turned  my  eyes 
towards  the  tattered  picture  above  mentioned,  and  asked  of 
the  austere  divine  wherefore  it  was  that  he  and  his  brethren, 
after  the  most  painful  rummaging  and  groping  into  their 
minds,  had  been  able  to  produce  nothing  half  so  real  as  these 
newspaper  scribblers  and  almanac  makers  had  thrown  off  in 
the  effervescence  of  a  moment.  The  portrait  responded  not; 
so  I  sought  an  answer  for  myself.  It  is  the  age  itself  that 
writes  newspapers  and  almanacs,  which,  therefore,  have  a 
distinct  purpose  and  meaning  at  the  time,  and  a  kind  of  intel- 
ligible truth  for  all  times;  whereas  most  other  works  —  being 
written  by  men  who,  in  the  very  act,  set  themselves  apart  from 
their  age  —  are  likely  to  possess  little  significance  when  new, 
and  none  at  all  when  old.  Genius,  indeed,  melts  many  ages 
into  one,  and  thus  effects  something  permanent,  yet  still  with 
a  similarity  of  office  to  that  of  the  more  ephemeral  writer.  A 
work  of  genius  is  but  the  newspaper  of  a  century,  or  perchance 
of  a  hundred  centuries. 

Lightly  as  I  have  spoken  of  these  old  books,  there  yet  lingers 
with  me  a  superstitious  reverence  for  literature  of  all  kinds. 
A  bound  volume  has  a  charm  in  my  eyes  similar  to  what  scraps 


THE  OLD  MANSE  227 

of  manuscript  possess  for  the  good  Mussulman.  He  imagines 
that  those  wind-wafted  records  are  perhaps  hallowed  by  some 
sacred  verse;  and  I,  that  every  new  book  or  antique  one  may 
contain  the  "open  sesame,"  —  the  spell  to  disclose  treasures 
hidden  in  some  unsuspected  cave  of  Truth.  Thus  it  was  not 
without  sadness  that  I  turned  away  from  the  library  of  the  Old 
Manse. 

Blessed  was  the  sunshine  when  it  came  again  at  the  close  of 
another  stormy  day,  beaming  from  the  edge  of  the  western 
horizon;  while  the  massive  firmament  of  clouds  threw  down 
all  the  gloom  it  could,  but  served  only  to  kindle  the  golden 
light  into  a  more  brilliant  glow  by  the  strongly  contrasted 
shadows.  Heaven  smiled  at  the  earth,  so  long  unseen,  from 
beneath  its  heavy  eyelid.  To-morrow  for  the  hill-tops  and  the 
wood  paths. 

Or  it  might  be  that  Ellery  Channing  ^  came  up  the  avenue 
to  join  me  in  a  fishing  excursion  on  the  river.  Strange  and 
happy  times  were  those  when  we  cast  aside  all  irksome  forms 
and  strait-laced  habitudes,  and  delivered  ourselves  up  to  the 
free  air,  to  live  hke  the  Indians  or  any  less  conventional  race 
during  one  bright  semicircle  of  the  sun.  Rowing  our  boat 
against  the  current,  between  wide  meadows,  we  turned  aside 
into  the  Assabeth.  A  more  lovely  stream  than  this,  for  a  mile 
above  its  junction  with  the  Concord,  has  never  flowed  on  earth, 
—  nowhere,  indeed,  except  to  lave  the  interior  regions  of  a 
poet's  imagination.  It  is  sheltered  from  the  breeze  by  woods 
and  a  hill-side;  so  that  elsewhere  there  might  be  a  hurricane, 
and  here  scarcely  a  ripple  across  the  shaded  water.  The  cur- 
rent lingers  along  so  gently  that  the  mere  force  of  the  boat- 
man's will  seems  sufiicient  to  propel  his  craft  against  it.  It 
comes  flowing  softly  through  the  midmost  privacy  and  deep- 
est heart  of  a  wood  which  whispers  it  to  be  quiet;  while  the 
stream  whispers  back  again  from  its  sedgy  borders,  as  if  river 
and  wood  were  hushing  one  another  to  sleep.  Yes;  the  river 
sleeps  along  its  course  and  dreams  of  the  sky  and  of  the  cluster- 
ing foliage,  amid  which  fall  showers  of  broken  sunlight,  im- 
parting specks  of  vivid  cheerfulness,  in  contrast  with  the  quiet 
depth  of  the  prevailing  tint.  Of  all  this  scene,  the  slumbering 

*  William  Ellery  Channing  (1818-1901),  a  Concord  poet,  nephew  of  the  re- 
nowned Unitarian  minister  of  the  same  name. 


228  .      NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

river  has  a  dream  picture  in  its  bosom.  Which,  after  all,  was 
the  most  real  —  the  picture,  or  the  original?  —  the  objects 
palpable  to  our  grosser  senses,  or  their  apotheosis  in  the  stream 
beneath?  Surely  the  disembodied  images  stand  in  closer  rela- 
tion to  the  soul.  But  both  the  original  and  the  reflection  had 
here  an  ideal  charm;  and,  had  it  been  a  thought  more  wild,  I 
could  have  fancied  that  this  river  had  strayed  forth  out  of  the 
rich  scenery  of  my  companion's  inner  world;  only  the  vegeta- 
tion along  its  banks  should  then  have  had  an  Oriental  char- 
acter. 

Gentle  and  unobtrusive  as  the  river  is,  yet  the  tranquil  woods 
seem  hardly  satisfied  to  allow  it  passage.  The  trees  are  rooted 
on  the  very  verge  of  the  water,  and  dip  their  pendent  branches 
into  it.  At  one  spot  there  is  a  lofty  bank,  on  the  slope  of  which 
grow  some  hemlocks,  decHning  across  the  stream  with  out- 
stretched arms,  as  if  resolute  to  take  the  plunge.  In  other 
places  the  banks  are  almost  on  a  level  with  the  water;  so  that 
the  quiet  congregation  of  trees  set  their  feet  in  the  flood,  and 
are  fringed  with  foliage  down  to  the  surface.  Cardinal  flowers 
kindle  their  spiral  flames  and  illuminate  the  dark  nooks  among 
the  shrubbery.  The  pond-lily  grows  abundantly  along  the 
margin  —  that  dehcious  flower,  which,  as  Thoreau  tells  me, 
opens  its  virgin  bosom  to  the  first  sunHght  and  perfects  its  being 
through  the  magic  of  that  genial  kiss.  He  has  beheld  beds  of 
them  unfolding  in  due  succession  as  the  sunrise  stole  gradually 
from  flower  to  flower  —  a  sight  not  to  be  hoped  for  unless 
when  a  poet  adjusts  his  inward  eye  to  a  proper  focus  with  the 
outward  organ.  Grape-vines  here  and  there  twine  themselves 
around  shrub  and  tree  and  hang  their  clusters  over  the  water 
within  reach  of  the  boatman's  hand.  Oftentimes  they  unite 
two  trees  of  alien  race  in  an  inextricable  twine,  marrying  the 
hemlock  and  the  maple  against  their  will,  and  enriching  them 
with  a  purple  offspring  of  which  neither  is  the  parent.  One  of 
these  ambitious  parasites  has  climbed  into  the  upper  branches 
of  a  tall  white  pine,  and  is  still  ascending  from  bough  to  bough, 
unsatisfied  till  it  shall  crown  the  tree's  airy  summit  with  a 
wreath  of  its  broad  foUage  and  a  cluster  of  its  grapes. 

The  winding  course  of  the  stream  continually  shut  out  the 
scene  behind  us,  and  revealed  as  calm  and  lovely  a  one  before. 
We  glided  from  depth  to  depth,  and  breathed  new  seclusion  at 


THE  OLD  MANSE  229 

every  turn.  The  shy  kingfisher  flew  from  the  withered  branch 
close  at  hand  to  another  at  a  distance,  uttering  a  shrill  cry  of 
anger  or  alarm.  Ducks  that  had  been  floating  there  since  the 
preceding  eve  were  startled  at  our  approach,  and  skimmed 
along  the  glassy  river,  breaking  its  dark  surface  with  a  bright 
streak.  The  pickerel  leaped  from  among  the  Hly-pads.  The 
turtle,  sunning  itself  upon  a  rock  or  at  the  root  of  a  tree,  slid 
suddenly  into  the  water  with  a  plunge.  The  painted  Indian  who 
paddled  his  canoe  along  the  Assabeth  three  hundred  years  ago 
could  hardly  have  seen  a  wilder  gentleness  displayed  upon  its 
banks  and  reflected  in  its  bosom  than  we  did.  Nor  could  the 
same  Indian  have  prepared  his  noontide  meal  with  more 
simplicity.  We  drew  up  our  skiff  at  some  point  where  the  over- 
arching shade  formed  a  natural  bower,  and  there  kindled  a 
fire  with  the  pine  cones  and  decayed  branches  that  lay  strewn 
plentifully  around.  Soon  the  smoke  ascended  among  the  trees, 
impregnated  with  a  savory  incense,  not  heavy,  dull,  and  sur- 
feiting, like  the  steam  of  cookery  within  doors,  but  sprightly 
and  piquant.  The  smell  of  our  feast  was  akin  to  the  woodland 
odors  with  which  it  mingled :  there  was  no  sacrilege  committed 
by  our  intrusion  there :  the  sacred  solitude  was  hospitable,  and 
granted  us  free  leave  to  cook  and  eat  in  the  recess  that  was  at 
once  our  kitchen  and  banqueting  hall.  It  is  strange  what  humble 
offices  may  be  performed  in  a  beautiful  scene  without  destroy- 
ing its  poetry.  Our  fire,  red  gleaming  among  the  trees,  and  we 
beside  it,  busied  with  culinary  rites  and  spreading  out  our  meal 
on  a  mossgrown  log,  all  seemed  in  unison  with  the  river  gUding 
by  and  the  foliage  rustling  over  us.  And,  what  was  strangest, 
neither  did  our  mirth  seem  to  disturb  the  propriety  of  the  sol- 
emn woods;  although  the  hobgoblins  of  the  old  wilderness  and 
the  will-of-the-wisps  that  glimmered  in  the  marshy  places 
might  have  come  trooping  to  share  our  table  talk,  and  have 
added  their  shrill  laughter  to  our  merriment.  It  was  the  very 
spot  in  which  to  utter  the  extremest  nonsense  or  the  prof ound- 
est  wisdom,  or  that  ethereal  product  of  the  mind  which  partakes 
of  both,  and  may  become  one  or  the  other,  in  correspondence 
with  the  faith  and  insight  of  the  auditor. 

So  amid  sunshine  and  shadow,  rustling  leaves  and  sighing 
waters,  up  gushed  our  talk  like  the  babble  of  a  fountain.  The 
evanescent  spray  was  Ellery's;  and  his,  too,  the  lumps  of  golden 


2SO  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

thought  that  lay  glimmering  in  the  fountain's  bed  and  bright- 
ened both  our  faces  by  the  reflection.  Could  he  have  drawn  out 
that  virgin  gold  and  stamped  it  with  the  mint  mark  that  alone 
gives  currency,  the  world  might  have  had  the  profit,  and  he  the 
fame.  My  mind  was  the  richer  merely  by  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  there.  But  the  chief  profit  of  those  wild  days  to  him  and 
me  lay,  not  in  any  definite  idea,  not  in  any  angular  or  rounded 
truth,  which  we  dug  out  of  the  shapeless  mass  of  problematical 
stuff,  but  in  the  freedom  which  we  thereby  won  from  all  cus- 
tom and  conventionalism  and  fettering  influences  of  man  on 
man.  We  were  so  free  to-day  that  it  was  impossible  to  be 
slaves  again  to-morrow.  When  we  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
house  or  trod  the  thronged  pavements  of  a  city,  still  the  leaves 
of  the  trees  that  overhang  the  Assabeth  were  whispering  to  us, 
**Be  free!  be  free!"  Therefore  along  that  shady  river-bank 
there  are  spots,  marked  with  a  heap  of  ashes  and  half -consumed 
brands,  only  less  sacred  in  my  remembrance  than  the  hearth 
of  a  household  fire. 

And  yet  how  sweet,  as  we  floated  homeward  adown  the 
golden  river  at  sunset,  —  how  sweet  was  it  to  return  within 
the  system  of  human  society,  not  as  to  a  dungeon  and  a  chain, 
but  as  to  a  stately  edifice,  whence  we  could  go  forth  at  will  into 
stateHer  simplicity!  How  gently,  too,  did  the  sight  of  the  Old 
Manse,  best  seen  from  the  river,  overshadowed  with  its  willow 
and  all  environed  about  with  the  foliage  of  its  orchard  and 
avenue,  —  how  gently  did  its  gray,  homely  aspect  rebuke  the 
speculative  extravagances  of  the  day!  It  had  grown  sacred  in 
connection  with  the  artificial  Hfe  against  which  we  inveighed; 
it  had  been  a  home  for  many  years  in  spite  of  all;  it  was  my 
home  too;  and,  with  these  thoughts,  it  seemed  to  me  that  all 
the  artifice  and  conventionalism  of  life  was  but  an  impalpable 
thinness  upon  its  surface,  and  that  the  depth  below  was  none 
the  worse  for  it.  Once,  as  we  turned  our  boat  to  the  bank, 
there  was  a  cloud,  in  the  shape  of  an  immensely  gigantic  figure 
of  a  hound,  couched  above  the  house,  as  if  keeping  guard  over 
it.  Gazing  at  this  symbol,  I  prayed  that  the  upper  influences 
might  long  protect  the  institutions  that  had  grown  out  of  the 
heart  of  mankind. 

If  ever  my  readers  should  decide  to  give  up  civilized  life, 
cities,  houses,  and  whatever  moral  or  material  enormities  in 


THE  OLD  MANSE  231 

addition  to  these  the  perverted  ingenuity  of  our  race  has  con- 
trived, let  it  be  in  the  eariy  autumn.  Then  Nature  will  love 
him  better  than  at  any  other  season,  and  will  take  him  to  her 
bosom  with  a  more  motherly  tenderness.  I  could  scarcely 
endure  the  roof  of  the  old  house  above  me  in  those  first  autum- 
nal days.  How  early  in  the  summer,  too,  the  prophecy  of 
autumn  comes!  EarHer  in  some  years  than  in  others;  some- 
times even  in  the  first  weeks  of  July.  There  is  no  other  feeling 
like  what  is  caused  by  this  faint,  doubtful,  yet  real  perception 
—  if  it  be  not  rather  a  foreboding  —  of  the  year's  decay,  so 
blessedly  sweet  and  sad  in  the  same  breath. 

Did  I  say  that  there  was  no  feeling  like  it?  Ah,  but  there  is 
a  half -acknowledged  melancholy  like  to  this  when  we  stand  in 
the  perfected  vigor  of  our  life  and  feel  that  Time  has  now  given 
us  all  his  flowers,  and  that  the  next  work  of  his  never  idle  fin- 
gers must  be  to  steal  them  one  by  one  away. 

I  have  forgotten  w^hether  the  song  of  the  cricket  be  not  as 
early  a  token  of  autumn's  approach  as  any  other,  —  that  song 
which  may  be  called  an  audible  stillness;  for  though  very  loud 
and  heard  afar,  yet  the  mind  does  not  take  note  of  it  as  a  sound, 
so  completely  is  its  individual  existence  merged  among  the 
accompanying  characteristics  of  the  season.  Alas  for  the 
pleasant  summer  time!  In  August  the  grass  is  still  verdant  on 
the  hills  and  in  the  valleys;  the  foKage  of  the  trees  is  as  dense  as 
ever,  and  as  green ;  the  flowers  gleam  forth  in  richer  abimdance 
along  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  by  the  stone  walls,  and  deep 
among  the  woods;  the  days,  too,  are  as  fervid  now  as  they  were 
a  month  ago;  and  yet  in  every  breath  of  wind  and  in  every 
beam  of  sunshine  we  hear  the  whispered  farewell  and  behold 
the  parting  smile  of  a  dear  friend.  There  is  a  coolness  amid  all 
the  heat,  a  mildness  in  the  blazing  noon.  Not  a  breeze  can  stir 
but  it  thrills  us  with  the  breath  of  autumn.  A  pensive  glory  is 
seen  in  the  far  golden  gleams,  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 
The  flowers  —  even  the  brightesjt  of  them,  and  they  are  the 
most  gorgeous  of  the  year  —  have  this  gentle  sadness  wedded 
to  their  pomp,  and  typify  the  character  of  the  dehcious  time 
each  within  itself.  The  brilliant  cardinal  flower  has  never 
seemed  gay  to  me. 

Still  later  in  the  season  Nature's  tenderness  waxes  stronger. 
It  is  impossible  not  to  be  fond  of  our  mother  now;  for  she  is  so 


232  , NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

fond  of  us!  At  other  periods  she  does  not  make  this  impression 
on  me,  or  only  at  rare  intervals;  but  in  those  genial  days  of 
autumn,  when  she  has  perfected  her  harvests  and  accomplished 
every  needful  thing  that  was  given  her  to  do,  then  she  overflows 
with  a  blessed  superfluity  of  love.  She  has  leisure  to  caress 
her  children  now.  It  is  good  to  be  aHve  at  such  times.  Thank 
Heaven  for  breath  —  yes,  for  mere  breath  —  when  it  is  made 
up  of  a  heavenly  breeze  like  this !  It  comes  with  a  real  kiss  upon 
our  cheeks;  it  would  linger  fondly  around  us  if  it  might;  but, 
since  it  must  be  gone,  it  embraces  us  with  its  whole  kindly 
heart  and  passes  onward  to  embrace  likewise  the  next  thing 
that  it  meets.  A  blessing  is  flung  abroad  and  scattered  far  and 
wide  over  the  earth,  to  be  gathered  up  by  all  who  choose.  I 
recline  upon  the  still  unwithered  grass  and  whisper  to  myself, 
**0  perfect  day!  O  beautiful  world !  O  beneficent  God  1 "  And 
it  is  the  promise  of  a  blessed  eternity;  for  our  Creator  would 
never  have  made  such  lovely  days  and  have  given  us  the  deep 
hearts  to  enjoy  them,  above  and  beyond  all  thought,  unless  we 
were  meant  to  be  immortal.  This  sunshine  is  the  golden  pledge 
thereof.  It  beams  through  the  gates  of  paradise  and  shows  us 
glimpses  far  inward. 

By  and  by,  in  a  little  time,  the  outward  world'  puts  on  a 
drear  austerity.  On  some  October  morning  there  is  a  heavy 
hoar-frost  on  the  grass  and  along  the  tops  of  the  fences ;  and  at 
sunrise  the  leaves  fall  from  the  trees  of  our  avenue  without  a 
breath  of  wind,  quietly  descending  by  their  own  weight.  All 
summer  long  they  have  murmured  like  the  noise  of  waters;  they 
have  roared  loudly  while  the  branches  were  wrestHng  with  the 
thunder  gust;  they  have  made  music  both  glad  and  solemn; 
they  have  attuned  my  thoughts  by  their  quiet  sound  as  I  paced 
to  and  fro  beneath  the  arch  of  intermingling  boughs.  Now  they 
can  only  rustle  under  my  feet.  Henceforth  the  gray  parsonage 
begins  to  assume  a  larger  importance,  and  draws  to  its  fireside, 

—  for  the  abomination  of  the  air-tight  stove  is  reserved  till 
wintry  weather,  —  draws  closer  and  closer  to  its  fireside  the 
vagrant  impulses  that  had  gone  wandering  about  through  the 
summer. 

When  summer  was  dead  and  buried  the  Old  Manse  became 
as  lonely  as  a  hermitage.  Not  that  ever  —  in  my  time  at  least 

—  it  had  been  thronged  with  company;  but,  at  no  rare  inter- 


THE  OLD  MANSE  233 

vals,  we  welcomed  some  friend  out  of  the  dusty  glare  and 
tumult  of  the  world,  and  rejoiced  to  share  with  him  the  trans- 
parent obscurity  that  was  floating  over  us.  In  one  respect  our 
precincts  were  like  the  Enchanted  Ground  through  which  the 
pilgrim  travelled  on  his  way  to  the  Celestial  City  P  The  guests, 
each  and  all,  felt  a  slumberous  influence  upon  them;  they  fell 
asleep  in  chairs,  or  took  a  more  dehberate  siesta  on  the  sofa,  or 
were  seen  stretched  among  the  shadows  of  the  orchard,  looking 
up  dreamily  through  the  boughs.  They  could  not  have  paid  a 
more  acceptable  compliment  to  my  abode,  nor  to  my  own 
qualities  as  a  host.  I  held  it  as  a  proof  that  they  left  their  cares 
behind  them  as  they  passed  between  the  stone  gate-posts  at  the 
entrance  of  our  avenue,  and  that  the  so  powerful  opiate  was  the 
abundance  of  peace  and  quiet  within  and  all  around  us.  Others 
could  give  them  pleasure  and  amusement  or  instruction  — 
these  could  be  picked  up  anywhere;  but  it  was  for  me  to  give 
them  rest  —  rest  in  a  life  of  trouble.  What  better  could  be'done 
for  those  weary  and  world-worn  spirits?  —  for  him  whose 
career  of  perpetual  action  was  impeded  and  harassed  by  the 
rarest  of  his  powers  and  the  richest  of  his  acquirements?  —  for 
another  who  had  thrown  his  ardent  heart  from  earliest  youth 
into  the  strife  of  politics,  and  now,  perchance,  began  to  suspect 
that  one  lifetime  is  too  brief  for  the  accomplishment  of  any 
lofty  aim?  —  for  her  on  whose  feminine  nature  had  been  im- 
posed the  heavy  gift  of  intellectual  power,  such  as  a  strong  man 
might  have  staggered  under,  and  with  it  the  necessity  to  act 
upon  the  world?  —  in  a  word,  not  to  multiply  instances,  what 
better  could  be  done  for  anybody  who  came  within  our  magic 
circle  than  to  throw  the  spell  of  a  tranquil  spirit  over  him?  And 
when  it  had  wrought  its  full  effect,  then  we  dismissed  him,  with 
but  misty  reminiscences,  as  if  he  had  been  dreaming  of  us. 

Were  I  to  adopt  a  pet  idea,  as  so  many  people  do,  and  fondle 
it  in  my  embraces  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  it  would  be, 
that  the  great  want  which  mankind  labors  under  at  this  present 
period  is  sleep.  The  world  should  recKne  its  vast  head  on  the 
first  convenient  pillow  and  take  an  age-long  nap.  It  has  gone 
distracted  through  a  morbid  activity,  and,  while  pretematurally 
wide  awake,  is  nevertheless  tormented  by  visions  that  seem  real 
to  it  now,  but  would  assume  their  true  aspect  and  character 
*  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  near  the  end. 


234  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

were  all  things  once  set  right  ^by  an  interval  of  sound  repose. 
This  is  the  only  method  of  getting  rid  of  old  delusions  and 
avoiding  new  ones;  of  regenerating  our  race,  so  that  it  might  in 
due  time  awake  as  an  infant  out  of  dewy  slumber;  of  restoring 
to  us  the  simple  perception  of  what  is  right,  and  the  single- 
hearted  desire  to  achieve  it,  both  of  which  have  long  been  lost 
in  consequence  of  this  weary  activity  of  brain  and  torpor  or 
passion  of  the  heart  that  now  afflict  the  universe.  Stimulants, 
the  only  mode  of  treatment  hitherto  attempted,  cannot  quell 
the  disease;  they  do  but  heighten  the  delirium. 

Let  not  the  above  paragraph  ever  be  quoted  against  the 
author;  for,  though  tinctured  with  its  modicum  of  truth,  it  is 
the  result  and  expression  of  what  he  knew,  while  he  was  writing, 
to  be  but  a  distorted  survey  of  the  state  and  prospects  of  man- 
kind. There  were  circumstances  around  me  which  made  it 
difficult  to  view  the  world  precisely  as  it  exists;  for,  severe  and 
sober  as  was  the  Old  Manse,  it  was  necessary  to  go  but  a  little 
way  beyond  its  threshold  before  meeting  with  stranger  moral 
shapes  of  men  than  might  have  been  encountered  elsewhere  in 
a  circuit  of  a  thousand  miles. 

These  hobgoblins  of  flesh  and  blood  were  attracted  thither 
by  the  widespreading  influence  of  a  great  original  thinker,  who 
had  his  earthly  abode  at  the  opposite  extremity  of  our  village. 
His  mind  acted  upon  other  minds  of  a  certain  constitution  with 
wonderful  magnetism,  and  drew  many  men  upon  long  pilgrim- 
ages to  speak  with  him  face  to  face.  Young  visionaries  —  to 
whom  just  so  much  of  insight  had  been  imparted  as  to  make 
life  all  a  labyrinth  around  them  —  came  to  seek  the  clew  that 
should  guide  them  out  of  their  self-involved  bewilderment. 
Grayheaded  theorists  —  whose  systems,  at  first  air,  had  finally 
imprisoned  them  in  an  iron  frame-work  —  travelled  painfully 
to  his  door,  not  to  ask  deliverance,  but  to  invite  the  free  spirit 
into  their  own  thraldom.  People  that  had  lighted  on  a  new 
thought,  or  a  thought  that  they  fancied  new,  came  to  Emerson, 
as  the  finder  of  a  glittering  gem  hastens  to  a  lapidary,  to  ascer- 
tain its  quality  and  value.  Uncertain,  troubled,  earnest  wan- 
derers through  the  midnight  of  the  moral  world  beheld  his 
intellectual  fire  as  a  beacon  burning  on  a  hill-top,  and,  climbing 
the  difiicult  ascent,  looked  forth  into  the  surrounding  obscurity 
more  hopefully  than  hitherto.  The  hght  revealed  objects  un- 


THE  OLD  MANSE  235 

seen  before,  —  mountains,  gleaming  lakes,  glimpses  of  a  crea- 
tion among  the  chaos;  but,  also,  as  was  unavoidable,  it  attracted 
bats  and  owls  and  the  whole  host  of  night  birds,  which  flapped 
their  dusky  wings  against  the  gazer's  eyes,  and  sometimes  were 
mistaken  for  fowls  of  angelic  feather.  Such  delusions  always 
hover  nigh  whenever  a  beacon  fire  of  truth  is  kindled. 

For  myself,  there  had  been  epochs  of  my  life  when  I,  too, 
might  have  asked  of  this  prophet  the  master  word  that  should 
solve  me  the  riddle  of  the  universe;  but  now,  being  happy,  I 
felt  as  if  there  were  no  question  to  be  put,  and  therefore  admired 
Emerson  as  a  poet  of  deep  beauty  and  austere  tenderness,  but 
sought  nothing  from  him  as  a  philosopher.  It  was  good,  never- 
theless, to  meet  him  in  the  woodpaths,  or  sometimes  in  our 
avenue,  with  that  pure  intellectual  gleam  diffused  about  his 
presence  like  the  garment  of  a  shining  one ;  and  he  so  quiet,  so 
simple,  so  without  pretension,  encountering  each  man  ahve  as 
if  expecting  to  receive  more  than  he  could  impart.  And,  in 
truth,  the  heart  of  many  an  ordinary  man  had,  perchance, 
inscriptions  which  he  could  not  read.  But  it  was  impossible  to 
dwell  in  his  vicinity  without  inhahng  more  or  less  the  mountain 
atmosphere  of  his  lofty  thought,  which,  in  the  brains  of  some 
people,  wrought  a  singular  giddiness,  —  new  truth  being  as 
heady  as  new  wine.  Never  was  a  poor  little  country  village 
infested  with  such  a  variety  of  queer,  strangely-dressed,  oddly- 
behaved  mortals,  most  of  whom  took  upon  themselves  to  be 
important  agents  of  the  world's  destiny,  yet  were  simply  bores 
of  a  very  intense  water.  Such,  I  imagine,  is  the  invariable  char- 
acter of  persons  who  crowd  so  closely  about  an  original  thinker 
as  to  draw  in  his  unuttered  breath  and  thus  become  imbued 
with  a  false  originality.  This  triteness  of  novelty  is  enough  to 
make  any  man  of  common  sense  blaspheme  at  all  ideas  of  less 
than  a  century's  standing,  and  pray  that  the  world  may  be 
petrified  and  rendered  immovable  in  precisely  the  worst  moral 
and  physical  state  that  it  ever  yet  arrived  at,  rather  than  be 
benefited  by  such  schemes  of  such  philosophers. 

And  now  I  begin  to  feel  —  and  perhaps  should  have  sooner 
felt  —  that  we  have  talked  enough  of  the  Old  Manse.  Mine 
honored  reader,  it  may  be,  will  vilify  the  poor  author  as  an 
egotist  for  babbling  through  so  many  pages  about  a  mossgrown 
country  parsonage,  and  his  life  within  its  walls  and  on  the  river 


236        •         NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

and  in  the  woods,  and  the  influences  that  wrought  upon  him 
from  all  these  sources.  My  conscience,  however,  does  not  re- 
proach me  with  betraying  anything  too  sacredly  individual  to 
be  revealed  by  a  human  spirit  to  its  brother  or  sister  spirit. 
How  narrow  —  how  shallow  and  scanty  too  —  is  the  stream  of 
thought  that  has  been  flowing  from  my  pen,  compared  with 
the  broad  tide  of  dim  emotions,  ideas,  and  associations  which 
swell  around  me  from  that  portion  of  my  existence !  How  little 
have  I  told!  and  of  that  little,  how  almost  nothing  is  even  tinc- 
tured with  any  quality  that  makes  it  exclusively  my  own !  Has 
the  reader  gone  wandering,  hand  in  hand  with  me,  through  the 
inner  passages  of  my  being?  and  have  we  groped  together  into 
all  its  chambers  and  examined  their  treasures  or  their  rubbish? 
Not  so.  We  have  been  standing  on  the  greensward,  but  just 
within  the  cavern's  mouth,  where  the  common  sunshine  is  free 
to  penetrate,  and  where  every  footstep  is  therefore  free  to  come. 
I  have  appealed  to  no  sentiment  or  sensibiHties  save  such  as 
are  diffused  among  us  all.  So  far  as  I  am  a  man  of  really  indi- 
vidual attributes  I  veil  my  face;  nor  am  I,  nor  have  I  ever  been, 
one  of  those  supremely  hospitable  people  who  serve  up  their 
own  hearts,  delicately  fried,  with  brain  sauce,  as  a  tidbit  for 
their  beloved  public. 

Glancing  back  over  what  I  have  written,  it  seems  but  the 
scattered  reminiscences  of  a  single  summer.  In  fairyland  there 
is  no  measurement  of  time;  and,  in  a  spot  so  sheltered  from  the 
turmoil  of  life's  ocean,  three  years  hastened  away  with  a  noise- 
less flight,  as  the  breezy  sunshine  chases  the  cloud  shadows 
across  the  depths  of  a  still  valley.  Now  came  hints,  growing 
more  and  more  distinct,  that  the  owner  of  the  old  house  was 
pining  for  his  native  air.  Carpenters  next  appeared,  making  a 
tremendous  racket  among  the  outbuildings,  strewing  the  green 
grass  with  pine  shavings  and  chips  of  chestnut  joists,  and  vexing 
the  whole  antiquity  of  the  place  with  their  discordant  renova- 
tions. Soon,  moreover,  they  divested  our  abode  of  the  veil  of 
woodbine  which  had  crept  over  a  large  portion  of  its  southern 
face.  All  the  aged  mosses  were  cleared  unsparingly  away;  and 
there  were  horrible  whispers  about  brushing  up  the  external 
walls  with  a  coat  of  paint  —  a  purpose  as  little  to  my  taste  as 
might  be  that  of  rouging  the  venerable  cheeks  of  one's  grand- 
mother. But  the  hand  that  renovates  is  always  more  sacrile- 


THE  OLD  MANSE  237 

gious  than  that  which  destroys.  In  fine,  we  gathered  up  our 
household  goods,  drank  a  farewell  cup  of  tea  in  our  pleasant 
little  breakfast  room,  —  delicately  fragrant  tea,  an  unpurchas- 
able  luxury,  one  of  the  many  angel  gifts  that  had  fallen  like 
dew  upon  us,  —  and  passed  forth  between  the  tall  stone  gate- 
posts as  uncertain  as  the  wandering  Arabs  where  our  tent 
might  next  be  pitched.  Providence  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 

—  an  oddity  of  dispensation  which,  I  trust,  there  is  no  irrever- 
ence in  smiling  at  —  has  led  me,  as  the  newspapers  announce 
while  I  am  writing,  from  the  Old  Manse  into  a  custom  house. 
As  a  story  teller,  I  have  often  contrived  strange  vicissitudes  for 
my  imaginary  personages,  but  none  like  this. 

The  treasure  of  intellectual  good  which  I  hoped  to  find  in 
our  secluded  dwelling  had  never  come  to  fight.  No  profound 
treatise  of  ethics,  no  philosophic  history,  no  novel  even,  that 
could  stand  unsupported  on  its  edges.  All  that  I  had  to  show, 
as  a  man  of  letters,  were  these  few  tales  and  essays,  which  had 
blossomed  out  like  flowers  in  the  calm  summer  of  my  heart 
and  mind.  Save  editing  (an  easy  task)  the  journal  of  my  friend 
of  many  years,  the  African  Cruiser/  I  had  done  nothing  else. 
With  these  idle  weeds  and  withering  blossoms  I  have  inter- 
mixed some  that  were  produced  long  ago,  —  old,  faded  things, 
reminding  me  of  flowers  pressed  between  the  leaves  of  a  book, 

—  and  now  offer  the  bouquet,  such  as  it  is,  to  any  whom  it 
may  please.  These  fitful  sketches,  with  so  little  of  external  life 
about  them,  yet  claiming  no  profundity  of  purpose,  —  so  re- 
served, even  while  they  sometimes  seem  so  frank,  —  often  but 
half  in  earnest,  and  never,  even  when  most  so,  expressing  satis- 
factorily the  thoughts  which  they  profess  to  image,  —  such 
trifles,  I  truly  feel,  afford  no  solid  basis  for  a  literary  reputation. 
Nevertheless,  the  public  —  if  my  limited  number  of  readers, 
whom  I  venture  to  regard  rather  as  a  circle  of  friends,  may  be 
termed  a  pubHc  —  will  receive  them  the  more  kindly,  as  the 
last  offering,  the  last  collection,  of  this  nature  which  it  is  my 
purpose  ever  to  put  forth.  Unless  I  could  do  better,  I  have 
done  enough  in  this  kind.  For  myself  the  book  will  always 
retain  one  charm  —  as  reminding  me  of  the  river,  with  its 
deHghtful  solitudes,  and  of  the  avenue,  the  garden,  and  the 

^  Journal  of  an  African  Cruiser,  by  Horatio  Bridge,  an  officer  of  the  United 
States  Navy. 


238  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

orchard,  and  especially  the  dear  Old  Manse,  with  the  little 
study  on  its  western  side,  and  the  sunshine  glimmering  through 
the  willow  branches  while  I  wrote. 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  will  do  me  so  much  honor,  imagine  him- 
self my  guest,  and  that,  having  seen  whatever  may  be  worthy 
of  notice  within  and  about  the  Old  Manse,  he  has  finally  been 
ushered  into  my  study.  There,  after  seating  him  in  an  antique 
elbow  chair,  an  heirloom  of  the  house,  I  take  forth  a  roll  of 
manuscript  and  entreat  his  attention  to  the  following  tales  — 
an  act  of  personal  inhospitality,  however,  which  I  never  was 
guilty  of,  nor  ever  will  be,  even  to  my  worst  enemy. 

YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  ^ 

Young  Goodman  Brown  came  forth  at  sunset  into  the  street 
at  Salem  village;  but  put  his  head  back,  after  crossing  the 
threshold,  to  exchange  a  parting  kiss  with  his  young  wife.  And 
Faith,  as  the  wife  was  aptly  named,  thrust  her  own  pretty  head 
into  the  street,  letting  the  wind  play  with  the  pink  ribbons  of 
her  cap  while  she  called  to  Goodman  Brown. 

*' Dearest  heart,''  whispered  she,  softly  and  rather  sadly, 
when  her  lips  were  close  to  his  ear,  ''prithee  put  off  your  jour- 
ney until  sunrise  and  sleep  in  your  own  bed  to-night.  A  lone 
woman  is  troubled  with  such  dreams  and  such  thoughts  that 
she's  afeard  of  herself  sometimes.  Pray  tarry  with  me  this 
night,  dear  husband,  of  all  nights  in  the  year." 

"My  love  and  my  Faith,"  replied  young  Goodman  Brown, 
"of  all  nights  in  the  year,  this  one  night  must  I  tarry  away  from 
thee.  My  journey,  as  thou  callest  it,  forth  and  back  again, 
must  needs  be  done  'twixt  now  and  sunrise.  What,  my  sweet 
wife,  dost  thou  doubt  me  already,  and  we  but  three  months 
married?" 

"Then  God  bless  you!"  said  Faith,  with  the  pink  ribbons; 
"and  may  you  find  all  well  when  you  come  back." 

"Amen!"  cried  Goodman  Brown.  "Say  thy  prayers,  dear 
Faith,  and  go  to  bed  at  dusk,  and  no  harm  will  come  to 
thee." 

So  they  parted;  and  the  young  man  pursued  his  way  until, 
being  about  to  turn  the  corner  by  the  meeting-house,  he  looked 
*  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  239 

back  and  saw  the  head  of  Faith  still  peeping  after  him  with  a 
melancholy  air,  in  spite  of  her  pink  ribbons. 

''Poor  little  Faith!"  thought  he,  for  his  heart  smote  him, 
"What  a  wretch  am  I  to  leave  her  on  such  an  errand !  She  talks 
of  dreams,  too.  Me  thought  as  she  spoke  there  was  trouble  in 
her  face,  as  if  a  dream  had  warned  her  what  work  is  to  be  done 
to-night.  But  no,  no;  't  would  kill  her  to  think  it.  Well,  she's 
a  blessed  angel  on  earth;  and  after  this  one  night  I'll  cling  to 
her  skirts  and  follow  her  to  heaven." 

With  this  excellent  resolve  for  the  future,  Goodman  Brown 
felt  himself  justified  in  making  more  haste  on  his  present  evil 
purpose.  He  had  taken  a  dreary  road,  darkened  by  all  the 
gloomiest  trees  of  the  forest,  which  barely  stood  aside  to  let  the 
narrow  path  creep  through,  and  closed  immediately  behind. 
It  was  all  as  lonely  as  could  be;  and  there  is  this  peculiarity  in 
such  a  solitude,  that  the  traveller  knows  not  who  may  be  con- 
cealed by  the  innumerable  trunks  and  the  thick  boughs  over- 
head; so  that  with  lonely  footsteps  he  may  yet  be  passing 
through  an  unseen  multitude. 

''There  may  be  a  devilish  Indian  behind  every  tree,"  said 
Goodman  Brown  to  himself;  and  he  glanced  fearfully  behind 
him  as  he  added,  "What  if  the  devil  himself  should  be  at  my 
very  elbow!'" 

His  head  being  turned  back,  he  passed  a  crook  of  the  road, 
and,  looking  forward  again,  beheld  the  figure  of  a  man,  in 
grave  and  decent  attire,  seated  at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree.  He 
arose  at  Goodman  Brown's  approach  and  walked  onward  side 
by  side  with  him. 

"You  are  late,  Goodman  Brown,"  said  he.  "The  clock  of 
the  Old  South  was  striking  as  I  came  through  Boston,  and  that 
is  full  fifteen  minutes  agone." 

"Faith  kept  me  back  a  while,"  replied  the  young  man,  with 
a  tremor  in  his  voice,  caused  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  his 
companion,  though  not  wholly  unexpected. 

It  was  now  deep  dusk  in  the  forest,  and  deepest  in  that  part 
of  it  where  these  two  were  journeying.  As  nearly  as  could  be 
discerned,  the  second  traveller  was  about  fifty  years  old,  appar- 
ently in  the  same  rank  of  life  as  Goodman  Brown,  and  bearing 
a  considerable  resemblance  to  him,  though  perhaps  more  in 
expression  than  features.  Still  they  might  have  been  taken  for 


240  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

father  and  son.  And  yet,  though  the  elder  person  was  as  simply 
clad  as  the  younger,  and  as  simple  in  manner  too,  he  had  an 
indescribable  air  of  one  who  knew  the  world,  and  who  would 
not  have  felt  abashed  at  the  governor's  dinner  table  or  in 
King  William's  court,  were  it  possible  that  his  affairs  should 
call  him  thither.  But  the  only  thing  about  him  that  could  be 
fixed  upon  as  remarkable  was  his  staff,  which  bore  the  likeness 
of  a  great  black  snake,  so  curiously  wrought  that  it  might 
almost  be  seen  to  twist  and  wriggle  itself  like  a  living  serpent. 
This,  of  course,  must  have  been  an  ocular  deception,  assisted 
by  the  uncertain  light. 

"Come,  Goodman  Brown,"  cried  his  fellow-traveller,  "this 
is  a  dull  pace  for  the  beginning  of  a  journey.  Take  my  staff,  if 
you  are  so  soon  weary." 

"Friend,"  said  the  other,  exchanging  his  slow  pace  for  a  full 
stop,  "having  kept  covenant  by  meeting  thee  here,  it  is  my 
purpose  now  to  return  whence  I  came.  I  have  scruples  touching 
the  matter  thou  wot'st  of." 

"Sayest  thou  so?"  replied  he  of  the  serpent,  smiling  apart. 
"Let  us  walk  on,  nevertheless,  reasoning  as  we  go;  and  if  I 
convince  thee  not  thou  shalt  turn  back.  We  are  but  a  little 
way  in  the  forest  yet." 

"Too  far!  too  far!"  exclaimed  the  goodman,  unconsciously 
resuming  his  walk.  "My  father  never  went  into  the  woods  on 
such  an  errand,  nor  his  father  before  him.  We  have  been  a  race 
of  honest  men  and  good  Christians  since  the  days  of  the  mar- 
tyrs; and  shall  I  be  the  first  of  the  name  of  Brown  that  ever 
took  this  path  and  kept"  — 

"Such  company,  thou  wouldst  say,"  observed  the  elder  per- 
son, interpreting  his  pause.  "Well  said,  Goodman  Brown!  I 
have  been  as  well  acquainted  with  your  family  as  with  ever  a 
one  among  the  Puritans;  and  that's  no  trifle  to  say.  I  helped 
your  grandfather,  the  constable,  when  he  lashed  the  Quaker 
woman  so  smartly  through  the  streets  of  Salem;  and  it  was  I 
that  brought  your  father  a  pitch-pine  knot,  kindled  at  my  own 
hearth,  to  set  fire  to  an  Indian  village,  in  King  Philip's  war. 
They  were  my  good  friends,  both;  and  many  a  pleasant  walk 
have  we  had  along  this  path,  and  returned  merrily  after  mid- 
night. I  would  fain  be  friends  with  you  for  their  sake." 

"If  it  be  as  thou  sayest,"  replied  Goodman  Brown,  "I  marvel 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  241 

they  never  spoke  of  these  matters;  or,  verily,  I  marvel  not, 
seeing  that  the  least  rumor  of  the  sort  would  have  driven  them 
from  New  England.  We  are  a  people  of  prayer,  and  good 
works  to  boot,  and  abide  no  such  wickedness." 

"Wickedness  or  not,"  said  the  traveller  with  the  twisted 
staff,  "I  have  a  very  general  acquaintance  here  in  New  Eng- 
land. The  deacons  of  many  a  church  have  drunk  the  com- 
munion wine  with  me;  the  selectmen  of  divers  towns  make  me 
their  chairman;  and  a  majority  of  the  Great  and  General  Court 
are  firm  supporters  of  my  interest.  The  governor  and  I,  too  — 
But  these  are  state  secrets." 

"Can  this  be  so?"  cried  Goodman  Brown,  with  a  stare  of 
amazement  at  his  undisturbed  companion.  "Howbeit,  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  governor  and  council;  they  have  their 
own  ways,  and  are  no  rule  for  a  simple  husbandman  like  me. 
But,  were  I  to  go  on  with  thee,  how  should  I  meet  the  eye  of 
that  good  old  man,  our  minister,  at  Salem  village?  Oh,  his 
voice  would  make  me  tremble  both  Sabbath  day  and  lecture 
day." 

Thus  far  the  elder  traveller  had  listened  with  due  gravity; 
but  now  burst  into  a  fit  of  irrepressible  mirth,  shaking  himself 
so  violently  that  his  snake-like  staff  actually  seemed  to  wriggle 
in  sympathy. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  shouted  he  again  and  again;  then  composing 
himself,  "Well,  go  on,  Goodman  Brown,  go  on;  but,  prithee, 
don't  kill  me  with  laughing." 

"Well,  then,  to  end  the  matter  at  once,"  said  Goodman 
Brown,  considerably  nettled,  "there  is  my  wife.  Faith.  It 
would  break  her  dear  little  heart;  and  I'd  rather  break  my 
own." 

"Nay,  if  that  be  the  case,"  answered  the  other,  "e'en  go  thy 
ways,  Goodman  Brown.  I  would  not  for  twenty  old  women 
like  the  one  hobbling  before  us  that  Faith  should  come  to  any 
harm." 

As  he  spoke  he  pointed  his  staff  at  a  female  figure  on  the 
path,  in  whom  Goodman  Brown  recognized  a  very  pious  and 
exemplary  dame,  who  had  taught  him  his  catechism  in  youth, 
and  was  still  his  moral  and  spiritual  adviser,  jointly  with  the 
minister  and  Deacon  Gookin. 

"A  marvel,  truly,  that  Goody  Cloyse  should  be  so  far  in  the 


242  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

wilderness  at  nightfall,"  said  he.  "But  with  your  leave,  friend, 
I  shall  take  a  cut  through  the  woods  until  we  have  left  this 
Christian  woman  behind.  Being  a  stranger  to  you,  she  might 
ask  whom  I  was  consorting  with  and  whither  I  was  going." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  his  fellow-traveller.  "Betake  you  to  the 
woods,  and  let  me  keep  the  path." 

Accordingly  the  young  man  turned  aside,  but  took  care  to 
watch  his  companion,  who  advanced  softly  along  the  road  until 
he  had  come  within  a  staff's  length  of  the  old  dame.  She,  mean- 
while, was  making  the  best  of  her  way,  with  singular  speed  for 
so  aged  a  woman,  and  mumbling  some  indistinct  words  —  a 
prayer,  doubtless  —  as  she  went.  The  traveller  put  forth  his 
staff  and  touched  her  withered  neck  with  what  seemed  the 
serpent's  tail. 

"The  devil!"  screamed  the  pious  old  lady. 

"Then  Goody  Cloyse  knows  her  old  friend?"  observed  the 
traveller,  confronting  her  and  leaning  on  his  writhing  stick. 

"Ah,  forsooth,  and  is  it  your  worship  indeed?"  cried  the 
good  dame.  "Yea,  truly  is  it,  and  in  the  very  image  of  my  old 
gossip,  Goodman  Brown,  the  grandfather  of  the  silly  fellow 
that  now  is.  But  —  would  your  worship  believe  it?  —  my 
broomstick  hath  strangely  disappeared,  stolen,  as  I  suspect, 
by  that  unhanged  witch.  Goody  Cory,  and  that,  too,  when  I 
was  all  anointed  with  the  juice  of  smallage,  and  cinquefoil,  and 
wolf's  bane  — " 

"Mingled  with  fine  wheat  and  the  fat  of  a  new-born  babe," 
said  the  shape  of  old  Goodman  Brown. 

"Ah,  your  worship  knows  the  recipe,"  cried  the  old  lady, 
cackling  aloud.  "So,  as  I  was  saying,  being  all  ready  for  the 
meeting,  and  no  horse  to  ride  on,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  foot  it; 
for  they  tell  me  there  is  a  nice  young  man  to  be  taken  into  com- 
munion to-night.  But  now  your  good  worship  will  lend  me 
your  arm,  and  we  shall  be  there  in  a  twinkling." 

"That  can  hardly  be,"  answered  her  friend.  "I  may  not 
spare  you  my  arm.  Goody  Cloyse;  but  here  is  my  staff,  if  you 
will." 

So  saying,  he  threw  it  down  at  her  feet,  where,  perhaps,  it 

assumed  life,  being  one  of  the  rods  which  its  owner  had  formerly 

lent  to  the  Egyptian  magi.^   Of  this  fact,  however,  Goodman 

Brown  could  not  take  cognizance.  He  had  cast  up  his  eyes  in 

*  Exodus  VII,  II. 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  243 

astonishment,  and,  looking  down  again,  beheld  neither  Goody 
Cloyse  nor  the  serpentine  staff,  but  his  fellow-traveller  alone, 
who  waited  for  him  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"That  old  woman  taught  me  my  catechism,"  said  the  young 
man ;  and  there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  this  simple  comment. 

They  continued  to  walk  onward,  while  the  elder  traveller 
exhorted  his  companion  to  make  good  speed  and  persevere  in 
the  path,  .discoursing  so  aptly  that  his  arguments  seemed 
rather  to  spring  up  in  the  bosom  of  his  auditor  than  to  be  sug- 
gested by  himself.  As  they  went,  he  plucked  a  branch  of  maple 
to  serve  for  a  walking  stick,  and  began  to  strip  it  of  the  twigs 
and  Httle  boughs,  which  were  wet  with  evening  dew.  The  mo- 
ment his  fingers  touched  them  they  became  strangely  withered 
and  dried  up  as  with  a  week's  sunshine.  Thus  the  pair  pro- 
ceeded, at  a  good  free  pace,  until  suddenly,  in  a  gloomy  hollow 
of  the  road,  Goodman  Brown  sat  himself  down  on  the  stump  of 
a  tree  and  refused  to  go  any  farther. 

"Friend,"  said  he,  stubbornly,  "my  mind  is  made  up.  Not 
another  step  will  I  budge  on  this  errand.  What  if  a  wretched 
old  woman  do  choose  to  go  to  the  devil  when  I  thought  she  was 
going  to  heaven:  is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  quit  my  dear 
Faith  and  go  after  her?" 

"You  will  think  better  of  this  by  and  by,"  said  his  acquaint- 
ance, composedly.  "Sit  here  and  rest  yourself  a  while;  and 
when  you  feel  like  moving  again,  there  is  my  staff  to  help  you 
along." 

Without  more  words,  he  threw  his  companion  the  maple 
stick,  and  was  as  speedily  out  of  sight  as  if  he  had  vanished 
into  the  gloom.  The  young  man  sat  a  few  moments  by  the 
roadside,  applauding  himself  greatly,  and  thinking  with  how 
clear  a  conscience  he  should  meet  the  minister  in  his  morning 
walk,  nor  shrink  from  the  eye  of  good  old  Deacon  Gookin. 
And  what  calm  sleep  would  be  his  that  very  night,  which  was 
to  have  been  spent  so  wickedly,  but  so  purely  and  sweetly 
now,  in  the  arms  of  Faith!  Amidst  these  pleasant  and  praise- 
worthy meditations,  Goodman  Brown  heard  the  tramp  of 
horses  along  the  road,  and  deemed  it  advisable  to  conceal 
himself  within  the  verge  of  the  forest,  conscious  of  the  guilty 
purpose  that  had  brought  him  thither,  though  now  so  hap- 
pily turned  from  it. 


244  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

On  came  the  hoof  tramps  and  the  voices  of  the  riders,  two 
grave  old  voices,  conversing  soberly  as  they  drew  near.  These 
mingled  sounds  appeared  to  pass  along  the  road,  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  young  man's  hiding-place;  but,  owing  doubtless 
to  the  depth  of  the  gloom  at  that  particular  spot,  neither  the 
travellers  nor  their  steeds  were  visible.  Though  their  figures 
brushed  the  small  boughs  by  the  wayside,  it  could  not  be  seen 
that  they  intercepted,  even  for  a  moment,  the  faint  gleam 
from  the  strip  of  bright  sky  athwart  which  they  must  have 
passed.  Goodman  Brown  alternately  crouched  and  stood  on 
tiptoe,  pulling  aside  the  branches  and  thrusting  forth  his  head 
as  far  as  he  durst  without  discerning  so  tauch  as  a  shadow.  It 
vexed  him  the  more,  because  he  could  have  sworn,  were  such 
a  thing  possible,  that  he  recognized  the  voices  of  the  minister 
and  Deacon  Gookin,  jogging  along  quietly,  as  they  were  wont 
to  do,  when  bound  to  some  ordination  or  ecclesiastical  council. 
While  yet  within  hearing,  one  of  the  riders  stopped  to  pluck  a 
switch. 

"Of  the  two,  reverend  sir,"  said  the  voice  like  the  deacon's, 
'^I  had  rather  miss  an  ordination  dinner  than  to-night's  meet- 
ing. They  tell  me  that  some  of  our  community  are  to  be  here 
from  Falmouth  and  beyond,  and  others  from  Connecticut  and 
Rhode  Island,  besides  several  of  the  Indian  powwows,  who, 
after  their  fashion,  know  almost  as  much  deviltry  as  the  best 
of  us.  Moreover,  there  is  a  goodly  young  woman  to  be  taken 
into  communion." 

"Mighty  well.  Deacon  Gookin!"  replied  the  solemn  old 
tones  of  the  minister.  "Spur  up,  or  we  shall  be  late.  Nothing 
can  be  done,  you  know,  until  I  get  on  the  ground." 

The  hoofs  clattered  again;  and  the  voices,  talking  so  strangely 
in  the  empty  air,  passed  on  through  the  forest,  where  no  church 
had  ever  been  gathered  or  solitary  Christian  prayed.  Whither, 
then,  could  these  holy  men  be  journeying  so  deep  into  the 
heathen  wilderness?  Young  Goodman  Brown  caught  hold  of  a 
tree  for  support,  being  ready  to  sink  down  on  the  ground,  faint 
and  overburdened  with  the  heavy  sickness  of  his  heart.  He 
looked  up  to  the  sky,  doubting  whether  there  really  was  a 
heaven  above  him.  Yet  there  was  the  blue  arch,  and  the  stars 
brightening  in  it. 

"With  heaven  above  and  Faith  below,  I  will  yet  stand  firm 
against  the  devil!"  cried  Goodman  Brown. 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  245 

While  he  still  gazed  upward  into  the  deep  arch  of  the  firma- 
ment and  had  lifted  his  hands  to  pray,  a  cloud,  though  no  wind 
was  stirring,  hurried  across  the  zenith  and  hid  the  brightening 
stars.  The  blue  sky  was  still  visible,  except  directly  overhead, 
where  this  black  mass  of  cloud  was  sweeping  swiftly  north- 
ward. Aloft  in  the  air,  as  if  from  the  depths  of  the  cloud, 
came  a  confused  and  doubtful  sound  of  voices.  Once  the  lis- 
tener fancied  that  he  could  distinguish  the  accents  of  towns- 
people of  his  own,  men  and  women,  both  pious  and  ungodly, 
many  of  whom  he  had  met  at  the  communion  table,  and  had 
seen  others  rioting  at  the  tavern.  The  next  moment,  so  indis- 
tinct were  the  sounds,  he  doubted  whether  he  had  heard  aught 
but  the  murmur  of  the  old  forest,  whispering  without  a  wind. 
Then  came  a  stronger  swell  of  those  familiar  tones,  heard  daily 
in  the  sunshine  at  Salem  village,  but  never  until  now  from  a 
cloud  of  night.  There  was  one  voice,  of  a  young  woman,  utter- 
ing lamentations,  yet  with  an  uncertain  sorrow,  and  entreating 
for  some  favor,  which,  perhaps,  it  would  grieve  her  to  obtain; 
and  all  the  unseen  multitude,  both  saints  and  sinners,  seemed 
to  encourage  her  onward. 

^' Faith ! "  shouted  Goodman  Brown,  in  a  voice  of  agony  and 
desperation;  and  the  echoes  of  the  forest  mocked  him,  crying, 
*'  Faith !  Faith ! "  as  if  bewildered  wretches  were  seeking  her  all 
through  the  wilderness. 

The  cry  of  grief,  rage,  and  terror  was  yet  piercing  the  night, 
when  the  unhappy  husband  held  his  breath  for  a  response. 
There  was  a  scream,  drowned  immediately  in  a  louder  murmur 
of  voices,  fading  into  far-off  laughter,  as  the  dark  cloud  swept 
away,  leaving  the  clear  and  silent  sky  above  Goodman  Brown. 
But  something  fluttered  lightly  down  through  the  air  and 
caught  on  the  branch  of  a  tree.  The  young  man  seized  it,  and 
beheld  a  pink  ribbon. 

"My  Faith  is  gone!"  cried  he,  after  one  stupefied  moment. 
"There  is  no  good  on  earth;  and  sin  is  but  a  name.  Come, 
devil;  for  to  thee  is  this  world  given." 

And,  maddened  with  despair,  so  that  he  laughed  loud  and 
long,  did  Goodman  Brown  grasp  his  staff  and  set  forth  again, 
at  such  a  rate  that  he  seemed  to  fly  along  the  forest  path  rather 
than  to  walk  or  run.  The  road  grew  wilder  and  drearier  and 
more  faintly  traced,  and  vanished  at  length,  leaving  him  in  the 


246  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

heart  of  the  dark  wilderness,  still  rushing  onward  with  the 
instinct  that  guides  mortal  man  to  evil.  The  whole  forest  was 
peopled  with  frightful  sounds  —  the  creaking  of  the  trees,  the 
howling  of  wild  beasts,  and  the  yell  of  Indians;  while  sometimes 
the  wind  tolled  like  a  distant  church  bell,  and  sometimes  gave 
a  broad  roar  around  the  traveller,  as  if  all  Nature  were  laughing 
him  to  scorn.  But  he  was  himself  the  chief  horror  of  the  scene, 
and  shrank  not  from  its  other  horrors. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  roared  Goodman  Brown  when  the  wind 
laughed  at  him.  "Let  us  hear  which  will  laugh  loudest.  Think 
not  to  frighten  me  with  your  deviltry.  Come  witch,  come 
wizard,  come  Indian  powwow,  come  devil  himself,  and  here 
comes  Goodman  Brown.  You  may  as  well  fear  him  as  he 
fear  you." 

In  truth,  all  through  the  haunted  forest  there  could  be  noth- 
ing more  frightful  than  the  figure  of  Goodman  Brown.  On  he 
flew  among  the  black  pines,  brandishing  his  staff  with  frenzied 
gestures,  now  giving  vent  to  an  inspiration  of  horrid  blasphemy, 
and  now  shouting  forth  such  laughter  as  set  all  the  echoes  of 
the  forest  laughing  like  demons  around  him.  The  fiend  in  his 
own  shape  is  less  hideous  than  when  he  rages  in  the  breast  of 
man.  Thus  sped  the  demoniac  on  his  course,  until,  quivering 
among  the  trees,  he  saw  a  red  light  before  him,  as  when  the 
felled  trunks  and  branches  of  a  clearing  have  been  set  on  fire, 
and  throw  up  their  lurid  blaze  against  the  sky,  at  the  hour  of 
midnight.  He  paused,  in  a  lull  of  the  tempest  that  had  driven 
him  onward,  and  heard  the  swell  of  what  seemed  a  hymn,,  roll- 
ing solemnly  from  a  distance  with  the  weight  of  many  voices. 
He  knew  the  tune;  it  was  a  familiar  one  in  the  choir  of  the  vil- 
lage meeting-house.  The  verse  died  heavily  away,  and  was 
lengthened  by  a  chorus,  not  of  human  voices,  but  of  all  the 
sounds  of  the  benighted  wilderness  pealing  in  awful  harmony 
together.  Goodman  Brown  cried  out,  and  his  cry  was  lost  to 
his  own  ear  by  its  unison  with  the  cry  of  the  desert. 

In  the  interval  of  silence  he  stole  forward  until  the  light 
glared  full  upon  his  eyes.  At  one  extremity  of  an  open  space, 
hemmed  in  by  the  dark  wall  of  the  forest,  arose  a  rock,  bearing 
some  rude,  natural  resemblance  either  to  an  altar  or  a  pulpit, 
and  surrounded  by  four  blazing  pines,  their  tops  aflame,  their 
stems  untouched,  like  candles  at  an  evening  meeting.    The 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  247 

mass  of  foliage  that  had  overgrown  the  summit  of  the  rock  was 
all  on  fire,  blazing  high  into  the  night  and  fitfully  illuminating 
the  whole  field.  Each  pendent  twig  and  leafy  festoon  was  in  a 
blaze.  As  the  red  light  arose  and  fell,  a  niunerous  congregation 
alternately  shone  forth,  then  disappeared  in  shadow,  and 
again  grew,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  darkness,  peopHng  the  heart 
of  the  solitary  woods  at  once. 

'*  A  grave  and  dark-clad  company,"  quoth  Goodman  Brown. 

In  truth  they  were  such.  Among  them,  quivering  to  and  fro 
between  gloom  and  splendor,  appeared  faces  that  would  be 
seen  next  day  at  the  council  board  of  the  province,  and  others 
which.  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  looked  devoutly  heavenward, 
and  benignantly  over  the  crowded  pews,  from  the  holiest 
pulpits  in  the  land.  Some  affirm  that  the  lady  of  the  governor 
was  there.  At  least  there  were  high  dames  well  known  to  her, 
and  wives  of  honored  husbands,  and  widows,  a  great  multi- 
tude, and  ancient  maidens,  all  of  excellent  repute,  and  fair 
young  girls,  who  trembled  lest  their  mothers  should  espy  them. 
Either  the  sudden  gleams  of  light  flashing  over  the  obscure 
field  bedazzled  Goodman  Brown,  or  he  recognized  a  score  of 
the  church  members  of  Salem  village  famous  for  their  especial 
sanctity.  Good  old  Deacon  Gookin  had  arrived,  and  waited  at 
the  skirts  of  that  venerable  saint,  his  revered  pastor.  But, 
irreverently  consorting  with  these  grave,  reputable,  and  pious 
people,  these  elders  of  the  church,  these  chaste  dames  and 
dewy  virgins,  there  were  men  of  dissolute  lives  and  women  of 
spotted  fame,  wretches  given  over  to  all  mean  and  filthy  vice, 
and  suspected  even  of  horrid  crimes.  It  was  strange  to  see  that 
the  good  shrank  not  from  the  wicked,  nor  were  the  sinners 
abashed  by  the  saints.  Scattered  also  among  their  pale-faced 
enemies  were  the  Indian  priests,  or  powwows,  who  had  often 
scared  their  native  forest  with  more  hideous  incantations 
than  any  known  to  EngHsh  witchcraft. 

"But  where  is  Faith?"  thought  Goodman  Brown;  and,  as 
hope  came  into  his  heart,  he  trembled. 

Another  verse  of  the  hymn  arose,  a  slow  and  mournful  strain, 
such  as  the  pious  love,  but  joined  to  words  which  expressed  all 
that  our  nature  can  conceive  of  sin,  and  darkly  hinted  at  far 
more.  Unfathomable  to  mere  mortals  is  the  lore  of  fiends. 
Verse  after  verse  was  sung;  and  still  the  chorus  of  the  desert 


248  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

swelled  between  like  the  deepest  tone  of  a  mighty  organ;  and 
with  the  final  peal  of  that  dreadful  anthem  there  came  a  sound, 
as  if  the  roaring  wind,  the  rushing  streams,  the  howling  beasts, 
and  every  other  voice  of  the  unconcerted  wilderness  were 
mingling  and  according  with  the  voice  of  guilty  man  in  homage 
to  the  prince  of  all.  The  four  blazing  pines  threw  up  a  loftier 
flame,  and  obscurely  discovered  shapes  and  visages  of  horror  on 
the  smoke  wreaths  above  the  impious  assembly.  At  the  same 
moment  the  fire  on  the  rock  shot  redly  forth  and  formed  a 
glowing  arch  above  its  base,  where  now  appeared  a  figure. 
With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  the  figure  bore  no  slight  simiUtude, 
both  in  garb  and  manner,  to  some  grave  divine  of  the  New 
England  churches. 

** Bring  forth  the  converts!"  cried  a  voice  that  echoed 
through  the  field  and  rolled  into  the  forest. 

At  the  word,  Goodman  Brown  stepped  forth  from  the  shadow 
of  the  trees  and  approached  the  congregation,  with  whom  he 
felt  a  loathful  brotherhood  by  the  sympathy  of  all  that  was 
wicked  in  his  heart.  He  could  have  well-nigh  sworn  that  the 
shape  of  his  own  dead  father  beckoned  him  to  advance,  looking 
downward  from  a  smoke  wreath,  while  a  woman,  with  dim 
features  of  despair,  threw  out  her  hand  to  warn  him  back. 
Was  it  his  mother?  But  he  had  no  power  to  retreat  one  step, 
nor  to  resist,  even  in  thought,  when  the  minister  and  good  old 
Deacon  Gookin  seized  his  arms  and  led  him  to  the  blazing  rock. 
Thither  came  also  the  slender  form  of  a  veiled  female,  led 
between  Goody  Cloyse,  that  pious  teacher  of  the  catechism, 
and  Martha  Carrier,  who  had  received  the  devil's  promise  to 
be  queen  of  hell.  A  rampant  hag  was  she.  And  there  stood  the 
proselytes  beneath  the  canopy  of  fire. 

"Welcome,  my  children,"  said  the  dark  figure,  "to  the  com- 
munion of  your  race.  Ye  have  found  thus  young  your  nature 
and  your  destiny.  My  children,  look  behind  you! " 

They  turned;  and  flashing  forth,  as  it  were,  in  a  sheet  of 
flame,  the  fiend  worshippers  were  seen;  the  smile  of  welcome 
gleamed  darkly  on  every  visage. 

"There,"  resumed  the  sable  form,  "are  all  whom  ye  have 
reverenced  from  youth.  Ye  deemed  them  holier  than  your- 
selves, and  shrank  from  your  own  sin,  contrasting  it  with  their 
lives  of  righteousness  and  prayerful  aspirations  heavenward. 


YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  249 

Yet  here  are  they  all  iiv  my  worshipping  assembly.  This 
night  it  shall  be  granted  you  to  know  their  secret  deeds:  how 
hoary-bearded  elders  of  the  church  have  whispered  wanton 
words  to  the  young  maids  of  their  households;  how  many  a 
woman,  eager  for  widows'  weeds,  has  given  her  husband  a  drink 
at  bedtime  and  let  him  sleep  his  last  sleep  in  her  bosom ;  how 
beardless  youths  have  made  haste  to  inherit  their  fathers' 
wealth;  and  how  fair  damsels  —  blush  not,  sweet  ones  —  have 
dug  little  graves  in  the  garden,  and  bidden  me,  the  sole  guest, 
to  an  infant's  funeral.  By  the  sympathy  of  your  human  hearts 
for  sin  ye  shall  scent  out  all  the  places  —  whether  in  church,  bed- 
chamber, street,  field,  or  forest — where  crime  has  been  com- 
mitted, and  shall  exult  to  behold  the  whole  earth  one  stain  of 
guilt,  one  mighty  blood  spot.  Far  more  than  this.  It  shall  be 
yours  to  penetrate,  in  every  bosom,  the  deep  mystery  of  sin, 
the  fountain  of  all  wicked  arts,  and  which  inexhaustibly  sup- 
pHes  more  evil  impulses  than  human  power  —  than  my  power 
at  its  utmost  —  can  make  manifest  in  deeds.  And  now,  my 
children,  look  upon  each  other." 

They  did  so;  and,  by  the  blaze  of  the  hell-kindled  torches,  the 
wretched  man  beheld  his  Faith,  and  the  wife  her  husband, 
trembling  before  that  unhallowed  altar. 

"Lo,  there  ye  stand,  my  children,"  said  the  figure,  in  a  deep 
and  solemn  tone,  almost  sad  with  its  despairing  awfulness,  as 
if  his  once  angehc  nature  could  yet  mourn  for  our  miserable 
race.  "Depending  upon  one  another's  hearts,  ye  had  still 
hoped  that  \drtue  were  not  all  a  dream.  Now  are  ye  imdeceived. 
Evil  is  the  nature  of  mankind.  Evil  must  be  your  only  happi- 
ness. Welcome  again,  my  children,  to  the  communion  of  your 
race." 

"Welcome,"  repeated  the  fiend  worshippers,  in  one  cry  of 
despair  and  triumph. 

And  there  they  stood,  the  only  pair,  as  it  seemed,  who  were 
yet  hesitating  on  the  verge  of  wickedness  in  this  dark  world. 
A  basin  was  hollowed,  naturally,  in  the  rock.  Did  it  contain 
water,  reddened  by  the  lurid  Hght?  or  was  it  blood?  or,  per- 
chance, a  liquid  flame?  Herein  did  the  shape  of  evil  dip  his 
hand  and  prepare  to  lay  the  mark  of  baptism  upon  their 
foreheads,  that  they  might  be  partakers  of  the  mystery  of  sin, 
more  conscious  of  the  secret  guilt  of  others,  both  in  deed  and 


250  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

thought,  than  they  could  now  be  of  their  own.  The  husband 
cast  one  look  at  his  pale  wife,  and  Faith  at  him.  What  pol- 
luted wretches  would  the  next  glance  show  them  to  each  other, 
shuddering  alike  at  what  they  disclosed  and  what  they  saw! 

"Faith!  Faith!"  cried  the  husband,  "look  up  to  heaven,  and 
resist  the  wicked  one." 

Whether  Faith  obeyed  he  knew  not.  Hardly  had  he  spoken 
when  he  found  himself  amid  calm  night  and  solitude,  listening 
to  a  roar  of  the  wind  which  died  heavily  away  through  the 
forest.  He  staggered  against  the  rock,  and  felt  it  chill  and 
damp;  while  a  hanging  twig,  that  had  been  all  on  fire,  be- 
sprinkled his  cheek  with  the  coldest  dew. 

The  next  morning  young  Goodman  Brown  came  slowly  into 
the  street  of  Salem  village,  staring  around  him  like  a  be- 
wildered man.  The  good  old  minister  was  taking  a  walk  along 
the  graveyard  to  get  an  appetite  for  breakfast  and  meditate 
his  sermon,  and  bestowed  a  blessing,  as  he  passed,  on  Goodman 
Brown.  He  shrank  from  the  venerable  saint  as  if  to  avoid  an 
anathema.  Old  Deacon  Gookin  was  at  domestic  worship,  and 
the  holy  words  of  his  prayer  were  heard  through  the  open 
window.  "What  God  doth  the  wizard  pray  to?"  quoth  Good- 
man Brown.  Goody  Cloyse,  that  excellent  old  Christian,  stood 
in  the  early  sunshine  at  her  own  lattice,  catechizing  a  little  girl 
who  had  brought  her  a  pint  of  morning's  milk.  Goodman 
Brown  snatched  away  the  child  as  from  the  grasp  of  the  fiend 
himself.  Turning  the  corner  by  the  meeting-house,  he  spied  the 
head  of  Faith,  with  the  pink  ribbons,  gazing  anxiously  forth, 
and  bursting  into  such  joy  at  sight  of  him  that  she  skipped  along 
the  street  and  almost  kissed  her  husband  before  the  whole  vil- 
lage. But  Goodman  Brown  looked  sternly  and  sadly  into  her 
face,  and  passed  on  without  a  greeting. 

Had  Goodman  Brown  fallen  asleep  in  the  forest  and  only 
dreamed  a  wild  dream  of  a  witch-meeting? 

Be  it  so  if  you  will;  but,  alas!  it  was  a  dream  of  evil  omen  for 
young  Goodman  Brown.  A  stern,  a  sad,  a  darkly  meditative, 
a  distrustful,  if  not  a  desperate  man  did  he  become  from  the 
night  of  that  fearful  dream.  On  the  Sabbath  day,  when  the 
congregation  were  singing  a  holy  psalm,  he  could  not  listen 
because  an  anthem  of  sin  rushed  loudly  upon  his  ear  and 
drowned  all  the  blessed  strain.  When  the  minister  spoke  from 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  251 

the  pulpit  with  power  and  fervid  eloquence,  and,  with  his  hand 
on  the  open  Bible,  of  the  sacred  truths  of  our  religion,  and  of 
saint-like  lives  and  triumphant  deaths,  and  of  future  bHss  or 
misery  unutterable,  then  did  Goodman  Brown  turn  pale,  dread- 
ing lest  the  roof  should  thunder  down  upon  the  gray  blasphemer 
and  his  hearers.  Often,  awaking  suddenly  at  midnight,  he 
shrank  from  the  bosom  of  Faith;  and  at  morning  or  eventide, 
when  the  family  knelt  down  at  prayer,  he  scowled  and  muttered 
to  himself,  and  gazed  sternly  at  his  wife,  and  turned  away. 
And  when  he  had  lived  long,  and  was  borne  to  his  grave  a  hoary 
corpse,  followed  by  Faith,  an  aged  woman,  and  children  and 
grandchildren^  a  goodly  procession,  besides  neighbors  not  a 
few,  they  carved  no  hopeful  verse  upon  his  tombstone,  for  his 
dying  hour  was  gloom. 

ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  ^ 

One  of  the  few  incidents  of  Indian  warfare  naturally  sus- 
ceptible of  the  moonlight  of  romance  was  that  expedition  under- 
taken for  the  defence  of  the  frontiers  in  the  year  1725,  which 
resulted  in  the  well-remembered  ''Lovell's  Fight."  Imagina- 
tion, by  casting  certain  circumstances  judicially  into  the  shade, 
may  see  much  to  admire  in  the  heroism  of  a  little  band  who 
gave  battle  to  twice  their  number  in  the  heart  of  the  enemy's 
country.  The  open  bravery  displayed  by  both  parties  was  in 
accordance  with  civilized  ideas  of  valor;  and  chivalry  itself 
might  not  blush  to  record  the  deeds  of  one  or  two  individuals. 
The  battle,  though  so  fatal  to  those  who  fought,  was  not  unfor- 
tunate in  its  consequences  to  the  country;  for  it  broke  the 
strength  of  a  tribe  and  conduced  to  the  peace  which  subsisted 
during  several  ensuing  years.  History  and  tradition  are  un- 
usually minute  in  their  memorials  of  this  affair;  and  the  captain 
of  a  scouting  party  of  frontier  men  has  acquired  as  actual  a 
military  renown  as  many  a  victorious  leader  of  thousands. 
Some  of  the  incidents  contained  in  the  following  pages  will 
be  recognized,  notwithstanding  the  substitution  of  fictitious 
names,  but  such  as  have  heard,  from  old  men's  lips,  the  fate  of 
the  few  combatants  who  were  in  a  condition  to  retreat  after 
"Lovell's  Fight." 

}  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 


2S2  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

The  early  sunbeams  hovered  cheerfully  upon  the  tree-tops, 
beneath  which  two  weary  and  wounded  men  had  stretched  their 
limbs  the  night  before.  Their  bed  of  withered  oak  leaves  was 
strewn  upon  the  small  level  space,  at  the  foot  of  a  rock,  situated 
near  the  summit  of  one  of  the  gentle  swells  by  which  the  face  of 
the  country  is  there  diversified.  The  mass  of  granite,  rearing 
its  smooth,  flat  surface  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  above  their  heads, 
was  not  unlike  a  gigantic  gravestone,  upon  which  the  veins 
seemed  to  form  an  inscription  in  forgotten  characters.  On  a 
tract  of  several  acres  around  this  rock,  oaks  and  other  hard- 
wood trees  had  supplied  the  place  of  the  pines,  which  were  the 
usual  growth  of  the  land;  and  a  young  and  vigorous  sapling 
stood  close  beside  the  travellers. 

The  severe  wound  of  the  elder  man  had  probably  deprived 
him  of  sleep;  for,  so  soon  as  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  rested  on 
the  top  of  the  highest  tree,  he  reared  himself  painfully  from  his 
recumbent  posture  and  sat  erect.  The  deep  lines  of  his  counte- 
nance and  the  scattered  gray  of  his  hair  marked  him  as  past 
the  middle  age;  but  his  muscular  frame  would,  but  for  the 
effects  of  his  wound,  have  been  as  capable  of  sustaining  fatigue 
as  in  the  early  vigor  of  Hfe.  Languor  and  exhaustion  now  sat 
upon  his  haggard  features;  and  the  despairing  glance  which  he 
sent  forward  through  the  depths  of  the  forest  proved  his  own 
conviction  that  his  pilgrimage  was  at  an  end.  He  next  turned 
his  eyes  to  the  companion  who  reclined  by  his  side.  The  youth 
—  for  he  had  scarcely  attained  the  years  of  manhood  —  lay, 
with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  in  the  embrace  of  an  unquiet  sleep, 
which  a  thrill  of  pain  from  his  wounds  seemed  each  moment  on 
the  point  of  breaking.  His  right  hand  grasped  a  musket;  and, 
to  judge  from  the  violent  action  of  his  features,  his  slumbers 
were  bringing  back  a  vision  of  the  conflict  of  which  he  was  one 
of  the  few  survivors.  A  shout  —  deep  and  loud  in  his  dreaming 
fancy  —  found  its  way  in  an  imperfect  murmur  to  his  lips ;  and, 
starting  even  at  the  slight  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he  suddenly 
awoke.  The  first  act  of  reviving  recollection  was  to  make 
anxious  inquiries  respecting  the  condition  of  his  wounded 
fellow-traveller.  The  latter  shook  his  head. 

*' Reuben,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "this  rock  beneath  which  we 
sit  will  serve  for  an  old  hunter's  gravestone.  There  is  many 
and  many  a  long  mile  of  howling  wilderness  before  us  yet;  nor 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  253 

would  it  avail  me  anything  if  the  smoke  of  my  own  chimney 
were  but  on  the  other  side  of  that  swell  of  land.  The  Indian 
bullet  was  deadlier  than  I  thought.'' 

"You  are  weary  with  our  three  days'  travel,"  repHed  the 
youth,  "and  a  Httle  longer  rest  will  recruit  you.  Sit  you  here 
while  I  search  the  woods  for  the  herbs  and  roots  that  must  be 
our  sustenance;  and,  having  eaten,  you  shall  lean  on  me,  and 
we  will  turn  our  faces  homeward.  I  doubt  not  that,  with  my 
help,  you  can  attain  to  some  one  of  the  frontier  garrisons." 

"There  is  not  two  days'  Hfe  in  me,  Reuben,"  said  the  other, 
calmly,  "  and  I  will  no  longer  burden  you  with  my  useless  body, 
when  you  can  scarcely  support  your  own.  Your  wounds  are 
deep  and  your  strength  is  faihng  fast;  yet,  if  you  hasten  on- 
ward alone,  you  may  be  preserved.  For  me  there  is  no  hope, 
and  I  will  await  death  here." 

"If  it  must  be  so,  I  will  remain  and  watch  by  you,"  said 
Reuben,  resolutely. 

"No,  my  son,  no,"  rejoined  his  companion.  "Let  the  wish 
of  a  dying  man  have  weight  with  you;  give  me  one  grasp  of  your 
hand,  and  get  you  hence.  Think  you  that  my  last  moments 
wall  be  eased  by  the  thought  that  I  leave  you  to  die  a  more 
lingering  death?  I  have  loved  you  like  a  father,  Reuben;  and 
at  a  time  like  this  I  should  have  something  of  a  father's  author- 
ity. I  charge  you  to  be  gone  that  I  may  die  in  peace." 

"And  because  you  have  been  a  father  to  me,  should  I  there- 
fore leave  you  to  perish  and  to  lie  unburied  in  the  wilderness?  " 
exclaimed  the  youth.  "No;  if  your  end  be  in  truth  approach- 
ing, I  will  watch  by  you  and  receive  your  parting  words.  I  will 
dig  a  grave  here  by  the  rock,  in  which,  if  my  weakness  overcome 
me,  we  will  rest  together;  or,  if  Heaven  gives  me  strength,  I  will 
seek  my  way  home." 

"In  the  cities  and  wherever  men  dwell,"  replied  the  other, 
"they  bury  their  dead  in  the  earth;  they  hide  them  from  the 
sight  of  the  living;  but  here,  where  no  step  may  pass  perhaps 
for  a  hundred  years,  wherefore  should  I  not  rest  beneath  the 
open  sky,  covered  only  by  the  oak  leaves  when  the  autumn 
winds  shall  strew  them?  And  for  a  monument,  here  is  this  gray 
rock,  on  which  my  dying  hand  shall  carve  the  name  of  Roger 
IVIalvin;  and  the  traveller  in  days  to  come  will  know  that  here 
sleeps  a  hunter  and  a  warrior.  Tarry  not,  then,  for  a  folly  like 


254  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

this,  but  hasten  away,  if  not  for  your  own  sake,  for  hers  who 
will  else  be  desolate." 

Malvin  spoke  the  last  few  words  in  a  faltering  voice,  and  their 
effect  upon  his  companion  was  strongly  visible.  They  reminded 
him  that  there  were  other  and  less  questionable  duties  than 
that  of  sharing  the  fate  of  a  man  whom  his  death  could  not 
benefit.  Nor  can  it  be  affirmed  that  no  selfish  feeling  strove  to 
enter  Reuben's  heart,  though  the  consciousness  made  him  more 
earnestly  resist  his  companion's  entreaties. 

''How  terrible  to  wait  the  slow  approach  of  death  in  this 
solitude! "  exclaimed  he.  "A  brave  man  does  not  shrink  in  the 
battle;  and,  when  friends  stand  round  the  bed,  even  women 
may  die  composedly;  but  here"  — 

"I  shall  not  shrink  even  here,  Reuben  Bourne,"  interrupted 
Malvin.  "  I  am  a  man  of  no  weak  heart,  and,  if  I  were,  there  is 
a  surer  support  than  that  of  earthly  friends.  You  are  young, 
and  Ufe  is  dear  to  you.  Your  last  moments  will  need  comfort 
far  more  than  mine;  and  when  you  have  laid  me  in  the  earth, 
and  are  alone,  and  night  is  settling  on  the  forest,  you  will  feel  all 
the  bitterness  of  the  death  that  may  now  be  escaped.  But  I  will 
urge  no  selfish  motive  to  your  generous  nature.  Leave  me  for 
my  sake,  that,  having  said  a  prayer  for  your  safety,  I  may  have 
space  to  settle  my  account  undisturbed  by  worldly  sorrows." 

"And  your  daughter,  —  how  shall  I  dare  to  meet  her  eye?" 
exclaimed  Reuben.  ''She  will  ask  the  fate  of  her  father,  whose 
life  I  vowed  to  defend  with  my  own.  Must  I  tell  her  that  he 
travelled  three  days'  march  with  me  from  the  field  of  battle 
and  that  then  I  left  him  to  perish  in  the  wilderness?  Were  it 
not  better  to  lie  down  and  die  by  your  side  than  to  return  safe 
and  say  this  to  Dorcas?" 

"Tell my  daughter,"  said  Roger  Malvin,  "that,  though  your- 
self sore  wounded,  and  weak,  and  weary,  you  led  my  tottering 
footsteps  many  a  mile,  and  left  me  only  at  my  earnest  entreaty, 
because  I  would  not  have  your  blood  upon  my  soul.  Tell  her 
that  through  pain  and  danger  you  were  faithful,  and  that,  if 
your  lifeblood  could  have  saved  me,  it  would  have  flowed  to  its 
last  drop;  and  tell  her  that  you  will  be  something  dearer  than  a 
father,  and  that  my  blessing  is  with  you  both,  and  that  my 
dying  eyes  can  see  a  long  and  pleasant  path  in  which  you  will 
jpurney  together." 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  255 

As  Malvin  spoke  he  almost  raised  himself  from  the  ground, 
and  the  energy  of  his  concluding  words  seemed  to  fill  the  wild 
and  lonely  forest  with  a  vision  of  happiness;  but,  when  he  sank 
exhausted  upon  his  bed  of  oak  leaves,  the  light  which  had 
kindled  in  Reuben's  eye  was  quenched.  He  felt  as  if  it  were 
both  sin  and  folly  to  think  of  happiness  at  such  a  moment.  His 
companion  watched  his  changing  countenance,  and  sought 
with  generous  art  to  wile  him  to  his  own  good. 

"Perhaps  I  deceive  myself  in  regard  to  the  time  I  have  to 
live,"  he  resumed.  "It  may  be  that,  with  speedy  assistance,  I 
might  recover  of  my  wound.  The  foremost  fugitives  must,  ere 
this,  have  carried  tidings  of  our  fatal  battle  to  the  frontiers, 
and  parties  will  be  out  to  succor  those  in  like  condition  with 
ourselves.  Should  you  meet  one  of  these  and  guide  them 
hither,  who  can  tell  but  that  I  may  sit  by  my  own  fireside 
again?" 

A  mournful  smile  strayed  across  the  features  of  the  dying 
man  as  he  insinuated  that  unfounded  hope,  —  which,  however, 
was  not  without  its  effect  on  Reuben.  No  merely  selfish  mo- 
tive, nor  even  the  desolate  condition  of  Dorcas,  could  have 
induced  him  to  desert  his  companion  at  such  a  moment  —  but 
his  washes  seized  on  the  thought  that  Malvin's  life  might  be 
preserved,  and  his  sanguine  nature  heightened  almost  to  cer- 
tainty the  remote  possibility  of  procuring  human  aid. 

"Surely  there  is  reason,  weighty  reason,  to  hope  that  friends 
are  not  far  distant,"  he  said,  half  aloud.  "There  fled  one 
coward,  un wounded,  in  the  beginning  of  the  fight,  and  most 
probably  he  made  good  speed.  Every  true  man  on  the  frontier 
would  shoulder  his  musket  at  the  news;  and,  though  no  party 
may  range  so  far  into  the  woods  as  this,  I  shall  perhaps  en- 
coimter  them  in  one  day's  march.  Counsel  me  faithfully,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Malvin,  in  distrust  of  his  own  motives. 
"Were  your  situation  mine,  would  you  desert  me  while  life 
remained?" 

"It  is  now  twenty  years,"  replied  Roger  Malvin,  —  sighing, 
however,  as  he  secretly  acknowledged  the  wide  dissimilarity 
between  the  two  cases,  —  "it  is  now  twenty  years  since  I 
escaped  with  one  dear  friend  from  Indian  captivity  near  Mon- 
treal. We  journeyed  many  days  through  the  woods,  till  at 
length  overcome  with  hunger  and  weariness,  my  friend  lay 


256  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

down  and  besought  me  to  leave  him;  for  he  knew  that,  if  I 
remained,  we  both  must  perish;  and,  with  but  little  hope  of 
obtaining  succor,  I  heaped  a  pillow  of  dry  leaves  beneath  his 
head  and  hastened  on." 

"And  did  you  return  in  time  to  save  him?"  asked  Reuben, 
hanging  on  Malvin's  words  as  if  they  were  to  be  prophetic  of 
his  own  success. 

"I  did,"  answered  the  other.  '^I  came  upon  the  camp  of  a 
hunting  party  before  sunset  of  the  same  day.  I  guided  them 
to  the  spot  where  my  comrade  was  expecting  death;  and  he  is 
now  a  hale  and  hearty  man  upon  his  own  farm,  far  within  the 
frontiers,  while  I  lie  wounded  here  in  the  depths  of  the  wilder- 
ness." 

This  exrample,  powerful  in  affecting  Reuben's  decision,  was 
aided,  unconsciously  to  himself,  by  the  hidden  strength  of  many 
another  motive.  Roger  Malvin  perceived  that  the  victory  was 
nearly  won. 

*^Now,  go,  my  son,  and  Heaven  prosper  you!"  he  said. 
"Turn  not  back  with  your  friends  when  you  meet  them,  lest 
your  wounds  and  weariness  overcome  you ;  but  send  hitherward 
two  or  three,  that  may  be  spared,  to  search  for  me;  and  believe 
me,  Reuben,  my  heart  will  be  lighter  with  every  step  you  take 
towards  home."  Yet  there  was,  perhaps,  a  change  both  in  his 
countenance  and  voice  as  he  spoke  thus;  for,  after  all,  it  was  a 
ghastly  fate  to  be  left  expiring  in  the  wilderness. 

Reuben  Bourne,  but  half  convinced  that  he  was  acting 
rightly,  at  length  raised  himself  from  the  ground  and  prepared 
himself  for  his  departure.  And  first,  though  contrary  to 
Malvin's  wishes,  he  collected  a  stock  of  roots  and  herbs,  which 
had  been  their  only  food  during  the  last  two  days.  This  useless 
supply  he  placed  within  reach  of  the  dying  man,  for  whom, 
also,  he  swept  together  a  bed  of  dry  oak  leaves.  Then  climbing 
to  the  summit  of  the  rock,  which  on  one  side  was  rough  and 
broken,  he  bent  the  oak  sapling  downward,  and  bound  his 
handkerchief  to  the  topmost  branch.  This  precaution  was  not 
unnecessary  to  direct  any  who  might  come  in  search  of  Malvin; 
for  every  part  of  the  rock,  except  its  broad,  smooth  front,  was 
concealed  at  a  little  distance  by  the  dense  undergrowth  of  the 
forest.  The  handkerchief  had  been  the  bandage  of  a  wound 
upon  Reuben's  arm;  and,  as  he  bound  it  to  the  tree,  he  vowed 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  257 

by  the  blood  that  stained  it  that  he  would  return,  either  to 
save  his  companion's  life  or  to  lay  his  body  in  the  grave.  He 
then  descended,  and  stood,  with  downcast  eyes,  to  receive 
Roger  Malvin's  parting  words. 

The  experience  of  the  latter  suggested  much  and  minute 
advice  respecting  the  youth's  journey  through  the  trackless 
forest.  Upon  this  subject  he  spoke  with  calm  earnestness,  as 
if  he  were  sending  Reuben  to  the  battle  or  the  chase  while  he 
himseK  remained  secure  at  home,  and  not  as  if  the  human 
countenance  that  was  about  to  leave  him  were  the  last  he 
would  ever  behold.  But  his  firmness  was  shaken  before  he 
concluded.  • 

''Carry  my  blessing  to  Dorcas,  and  say  that  my  last  prayer 
shall  be  for  her  and  you.  Bid  her  to  have  no  hard  thoughts 
because  you  left  me  here,"  —  Reuben's  heart  smote  him,  — 
"for  that  your  life  would  not  have  weighed  with  you  if  its 
sacrifice  could  have  done  me  good.  She  will  marry  you  after 
she  has  mourned  a  little  while  for  her  father;  and  Heaven  grant 
you  long  and  happy  days,  and  may  your  children's  children 
stand  round  your  death  bed!  And,  Reuben,"  added  he,  as  the 
weakness  of  mortality  made  its  way  at  last,  ''return,  when 
your  wounds  are  healed  and  your  weariness  refreshed,  —  re- 
turn to  this  wild  rock,  and  lay  my  bones  in  the  grave,  and  say 
a  prayer  over  them." 

An  almost  superstitious  regard,  arising  perhaps  from  the 
customs  of  the  Indians,  whose  war  was  with  the  dead  as  well 
as  the  living,  was  paid  by  the  frontier  inhabitants  to  the  rites  of 
sepulture;  and  there  are  many  instances  of  the  sacrifice  of  Hfe 
in  the  attempt  to  bury  those  who  had  fallen  by  the  "sword  of 
the  wilderness."  Reuben,  therefore,  felt  the  full  importance 
of  the  promise  which  he  most  solemnly  made  to  return  and 
perform  Roger  Malvin's  obsequies.  It  was  remarkable  that 
the  latter,  speaking  his  whole  heart  in  his  parting  words,  no 
longer  endeavored  to  persuade  the  youth  that  even  the  speed- 
iest succor  might  avail  to  the  preservation  of  his  Hfe.  Reuben 
was  internally  convinced  that  he  should  see  Malvin's  living 
face  no  more.  His  generous  nature  would  fain  have  delayed 
him,  at  whatever  risk,  till  the  dying  scene  were  past;  but  the 
desire  of  existence  and  the  hope  of  happiness  had  strengthened 
in  his  heart,  and  he  was  unable  to  resist  them. 


258  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Roger  Malvin,  having  listened  to  Reu- 
ben's promise.   ''Go,  and  God  speed  you!" 

The  youth  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  turned,  and  was  de- 
parting. His  slow  and  faltering  steps,  however,  had  borne  him 
but  a  little  way  before  Malvin's  voice  recalled  him. 

"Reuben,  Reuben,"  said  he,  faintly;  and  Reuben  returned 
and  knelt  down  by  the  dying  man. 

"Raise  me,  and  let  me  lean  against  the  rock,"  was  his  last 
request.  "My  face  will  be  turned  towards  home,  and  I  shall 
see  you  a  moment  longer  as  you  pass  among  the  trees." 

Reuben,  having  made  the  desired  alteration  in  his  compan- 
ion's posture,  again  began  his  solitary  pilgrimage.  He  walked 
more  hastily  at  first  than  was  consistent  with  his  strength;  for 
a  sort  of  guilty  feeling,  which  sometimes  torments  men  in  their 
most  justifiable  acts,  caused  him  to  seek  concealment  from 
Malvin's  eyes;  but  after  he. had  trodden  far  upon  the  rustling 
forest  leaves  he  crept  back,  impelled  by  a  wild  and  painful 
curiosity,  and,  sheltered  by  the  earthly  roots  of  an  uptom  tree, 
gazed  earnestly  at  the  desolate  man.  The  morning  sun  was 
unclouded,  and  the  trees  and  shrubs  imbibed  the  sweet  air  of 
the  month  of  May;  yet  there  seemed  a  gloom  on  Nature's  face, 
as  if  she  sympathized  with  mortal  pain  and  sorrow.  Roger 
Malvin's  hands  were  uplifted  in  a  fervent  prayer,  some  of 
the  words  of  which  stole  through  the  stillness  of  the  woods 
and  entered  Reuben's  heart,  torturing  it  with  an  unuttera- 
ble pang.  They  were  the  broken  accents  of  a  petition  for 
his  own  happiness  and  that  of  Dorcas;  and,  as  the  youth 
listened,  conscience,  or  something  in  its  similitude,  pleaded 
strongly  with  him  to  return  and  lie  down  again  by  the  rock. 
He  felt  how  hard  was  the  doom  of  the  kind  and  generous  being 
whom  he  had  deserted  in  his  extremity.  Death  would  come  like 
the  slow  approach  of  a  corpse,  stealing  gradually  towards  him 
through  the  forest,  and  showing  its  ghastly  and  motionless 
features  from  behind  a  nearer  and  yet  a  nearer  tree.  But  such 
must  have  been  Reuben's  own  fate  had  he  tarried  another  sun- 
set; and  who  shall  impute  blame  to  him  if  he  shrink  from  so 
useless  a  sacrifice?  As  he  gave  a  parting  look,  a  breeze  waved 
the  little  banner  upon  the  sapling  oak  and  reminded  Reuben 
of  his  vow. 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  259 

Many  circumstances  combined  to  retard  the  wounded  trav- 
eller in  his  way  to  the  frontiers.  On  the  second  day  the  clouds, 
gathering  densely  over  the  sky,  precluded  the  possibility  of 
regulating  his  course  by  the  position  of  the  sun;  and  he  knew 
not  but  that  every  effort  of  his  almost  exhausted  strength  was 
removing  him  farther  from  the  home  he  sought.  His  scanty 
sustenance  was  supplied  by  the  berries  and  other  spontaneous 
products  of  the  forest.  Herds  of  deer,  it  is  true,  sometimes 
bounded  past  him,  and  partridges  frequently  whirred  up  before 
his  footsteps;  but  his  ammunition  had  been  expended  in  the 
fight,  and  he  had  no  means  of  slaying  them.  His  wounds,  irri- 
tated by  the  constant  exertion  in  which  lay  the  only  hope  of 
life,  wore  away  his  strength  and  at  intervals  confused  his 
reason.  But,  even  in  the  wanderings  of  intellect,  Reuben's 
young  heart  clung  strongly  to  existence;  and  it  was  only  through 
absolute  incapacity  of  motion  that  he  at  last  sank  down  be- 
neath a  tree,  compelled  there  to  await  death.  '  f 

In  this  situation  he  was  discovered  by  a  party  who,  upon 
the  first  intelligence  of  the  fight,  had  been  despatched  to  the 
relief  of  the  survivors.  They  conveyed  him  to  the  nearest 
settlement,  which  chanced  to  be  that  of  his  own  residence. 

Dorcas,  in  the  simplicity  of  the  olden  time,  watched  by  the 
bedside  of  her  wounded  lover,  and  administered  all  those  com- 
forts that  are  in  the  sole  gift  of  woman's  heart  and  hand. 
During  several  days  Reuben's  recollection  strayed  drowsily 
among  the  perils  and  hardships  through  which  he  had  passed, 
and  he  was  incapable  of  returning  definite  answers  to  the  in- 
quiries with  which  many  were  eager  to  harass  him.  No  au- 
thentic particulars  of  the  battle  had  yet  been  circulated;  nor 
could  mothers,  wives,  and  children  tell  whether  their  loved 
ones  were  detained  by  captivity  or  by  the  stronger  chain  of 
death.  Dorcas  nourished  her  apprehensions  in  silence  till  one 
afternoon  when  Reuben  awoke  from  an  unquiet  sleep,  and 
seemed  to  recognize  her  more  perfectly  than  at  any  previous 
time.  She  saw  that  his  intellect  had  become  composed,  and  she 
could  no  longer  restrain  her  filial  anxiety. 

"My  father,  Reuben?"  she  began;  but  the  change  in  her 
lover's  countenance  made  her  pause. 

The  youth  shrank  as  if  with  a  bitter  pain,  and  the  blood 
gushed  vividly  into  his  wan  and  hollow  cheeks.  His  first  im- 


26o  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

pulse  was  to  cover  his  face;  but,  apparently  with  a  desperate 
effort,  he  half  raised  himself  and  spoke  vehemently,  defending 
himself  against  an  imaginary  accusation. 

"Your  father  was  sore  wounded  in  the  battle,  Dorcas;  and 
he  bade  me  not  burden  myself  with  him,  but  only  to  lead  him 
to  the  lakeside,  that  he  might  quench  his  thirst  and  die.  But 
I  would  not  desert  the  old  man  in  his  extremity,  and,  though 
bleeding  myself,  I  supported  him;  I  gave  him  half  my  strength, 
and  led  him  away  with  me.  For  three  days  we  journeyed  on 
together,  and  your  father  was  sustained  beyond  my  hopes,  but, 
awaking  at  sunrise  on  the  fourth  day,  I  found  him  faint  and 
exhausted;  he  was  unable  to  proceed;  his  life  had  ebbed  away 
fast;  and  — " 

^'He  died!"  exclaimed  Dorcas,  faintly. 

Reuben  felt  it  impossible  to  acknowledge  that  his  selfish  love 
of  life  had  hurried  him  away  before  her  father's  fate  was  de- 
cided. He  spoke  not;  he  only  bowed  his  head;  and,  between 
shame  and  exhaustion,  sank  back  and  hid  his  face  in  the  pillow. 
Dorcas  wept  when  her  fears  were  thus  confirmed;  but  the 
shock,  as  it  had  been  long  anticipated,  was  on  that  account  the 
less  violent. 

"You  dug  a  grave  for  my  poor  father  in  the  wilderness, 
Reuben?  "  was  the  question  by  which  her  fiUal  piety  manifested 
itself. 

"My  hands  were  weak;  but  I  did  what  I  could,"  replied  the 
youth  in  a  smothered  tone.  "There  stands  a  noble  tombstone 
above  his  head;  and  I  would  to  Heaven  I  slept  as  soundly  as 
he!" 

Dorcas,  perceiving  the  wildness  of  his  latter  words,  inquired 
no  further  at  the  time;  but  her  heart  found  ease  in  the  thought 
that  Roger  Malvin  had  not  lacked  such  funeral  rites  as  it  was 
possible  to  bestow.  The  tale  of  Reuben's  courage  and  fidelity 
lost  nothing  when  she  communicated  it  to  her  friends;  and  the 
poor  youth,  tottering  from  his  sick  chamber  to  breathe  the 
sunny  air,  experienced  from  every  tongue  the  miserable  and 
humiliating  torture  of  unmerited  praise.  All  acknowledged 
that  he  might  worthily  demand  the  hand  of  the  fair  maiden 
to  whose  father  he  had  been  "faithful  unto  death";  and,  as  my 
tale  is  not  of  love,  it  shall  suffice  to  say  that  in  the  space  of  a 
few  months  Reuben  became  the  husband  of  Dorcas  Malvin. 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  261 

During  the  marriage  ceremony  the  bride  was  covered  with 
blushes,  but  the  bridegroom's  face  was  pale. 

There  was  now  in  the  breast  of  Reuben  Bourne  an  incom- 
municable thought  —  something  which  he  was  to  conceal  most 
heedfully  from  her  whom  he  most  loved  and  trusted.  He  re- 
gretted, deeply  and  bitterly,  the  moral  cowardice  that  had 
restrained  his  words  when  he  was  about  to  disclose  the  truth 
to  Dorcas;  but  pride,  the  fear  of  losing  her  affection,  the  dread 
of  universal  scorn,  forbade  him  to  rectify  this  falsehood.  He 
felt  that  for  leaving  Roger  Malvin  he  deserved  no  censure.  His 
presence,  the  gratuitous  sacrifice  of  his  own  life,  would  have 
added  only  another  and  a  needless  agony  to  the  last  moments 
of  the  dying  man;  but  concealment  had  imparted  to  a  justifiable 
act  much  of  the  secret  effect  of  guilt;  and  Reuben,  while  reason 
told  him  that  he  had  done  right,  experienced  in  no  small  degree 
the  mental  horrors  which  punish  the  perpetrator  of  undis- 
covered crime.  By  a  certain  association  of  ideas,  he  at  times 
almost  imagined  himself  a  murderer.  For  years,  also,  a  thought 
would  occasionally  recur,  which,  though  he  perceived  all  its 
folly  and  extravagance,  he  had  not  power  to  banish  from  his 
mind.-  It  was  a  haunting  and  torturing  fancy  that  his  father- 
in-law  was  yet  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  on  the  withered 
forest  leaves,  aUve,  and  awaiting  his  pledged  assistance.  These 
mental  deceptions,  however,  came  and  went,  nor  did  he  ever 
mistake  them  for  realities;  but  in  the  calmest  and  clearest 
moods  of  his  mind  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  a  deep  vow 
unredeemed,  and  that  an  unburied  corpse  was  calling  to  him 
out  of  the  wilderness.  Yet  such  was  the  consequence  of  his 
prevarication  that  he  could  not  obey  the  call.  It  was  now  too 
late  to  require  the  assistance  of  Roger  Malvin's  friends  in  per- 
forming his  long-deferred  sepulture;  and  superstitious  fears,  of 
which  none  were  more  susceptible  than  the  people  of  the  out- 
ward settlements,  forbade  Reuben  to  go  alone.  Neither  did  he 
know  where  in  the  pathless  and  illimitable  forest  to  seek  that 
smooth  and  lettered  rock  at  the  base  of  which  the  body  lay: 
his  remembrance  of  every  portion  of  his  travel  thence  was  indis- 
tinct, and  the  latter  part  had  left  no  impression  upon  his  mind. 
There  was,  however,  a  continual  impulse,  a  voice  audible  only 
to  himself,  commanding  him  to  go  forth  and  redeem  his  vow; 
and  he  had  a  strange  impression  that,  were  he  to  make  the  trial, 


i6a  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

he  would  be  led  straight  to  Malvin's  bones.  But  year  after  year 
that  summons,  unheard  but  felt,  was  disobeyed.  His  one  secret 
thought  became  like  a  chain  binding  down  his  spirit  and  like  a 
serpent  gnawing  into  his  heart;  and  he  was  transformed  into  a 
sad  and  downcast  yet  irritable  man. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years  after  their  marriage  changes  be- 
gan to  be  visible  in  the  external  prosperity  of  Reuben  and 
Dorcas.  The  only  riches  of  the  former  had  been  his  stout  heart 
and  strong  arm;  but  the  latter,  her  father's  sole  heiress,  had 
made  her  husband  master  of  a  farm,  under  older  cultivation, 
larger,  and  better  stocked  than  most  of  the  frontier  estabUsh- 
ments.  Reuben  Bourne,  however,  was  a  neglectful  husband- 
man; and,  while  the  lands  of  the  other  settlers  became  annually 
more  fruitful,  his  deteriorated  in  the  same  proportion.  The 
discouragements  to  agriculture  were  greatly  lessened  by  the 
cessation  of  Indian  war,  during  which  men  held  the  plough  in 
one  hand  and  the  musket  in  the  other,  and  were  fortunate  if  the 
products  of  their  dangerous  labor  were  not  destroyed,  either  in 
the  field  or  in  the  barn,  by  the  savage  enemy.  But  Reuben  did 
not  profit  by  the  altered  condition  of  the  coimtry ;  nor  can  it  be 
denied  that  his  intervals  of  industrious  attention  to  his  affairs 
were  but  scantily  rewarded  with  success.  The  irritability  by 
which  he  had  recently  become  distinguished  was  another  cause 
of  his  declining  prosperity,  as  it  occasioned  frequent  quarrels 
in  his  unavoidable  intercourse  with  the  neighboring  settlers. 
The  results  of  these  were  innumerable  lawsuits;  for  the  people 
of  New  England,  in  the  earliest  stages  and  wildest  circiun- 
stances  of  the  country,  adopted,  whenever  attainable,  the  legal 
mode  of  deciding  their  differences.  To  be  brief,  the  world  did  not 
go  well  with  Reuben  Bourne;  and,  though  not  till  many  years 
after  his  marriage,  he  was  finally  a  ruined  man,  with  but  one 
remaining  expedient  against  the  evil  fate  that  had  pursued  him. 
He  was  to  throw  sunlight  into  some  deep  recess  of  the  forest, 
and  seek  subsistence  from  the  virgin  bosom  of  the  wilderness. 

The  only  child  of  Reuben  and  Dorcas  was  a  son,  now  arrived 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  years,  beautiful  in  youth,  and  giving  prom- 
ise of  a  glorious  manhood.  He  was  peculiarly  qualified  for,  and 
already  began  to  excel  in,  the  wild  accomplishments  of  frontier 
life.  His  foot  was  fleet,  his  aim  true,  his  apprehension  qxiick, 
his  heart  glad  and  high;  and  all  who  anticipated  the  return  of 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  263 

Indian  war  spoke  of  Cyrus  Bourne  as  a  future  leader  in  the 
land.  The  boy  was  loved  by  his  father  with  a  deep  and  silent 
strength,  as  if  whatever  was  good  and  happy  in  his  own  nature 
had  been  transferred  to  his  child,  carrying  his  affections  with  it. 
Even  Dorcas,  though  loving  and  beloved,  was  far  less  dear  to 
him;  for  Reuben's  secret  thoughts  and  insulated  emotions  had 
gradually  made  him  a  selfish  man,  and  he  could  no  longer  love 
deeply  except  where  he  saw  or  imagined  some  reflection  or 
likeness  of  his  own  mind.  In  Cyrus  he  recognized  what  he  had 
himself  been  in  other  days;  and  at  intervals  he  seemed  to  par- 
take of  the  boy's  spirit,  and  to  be  revived  with  a  fresh  and 
happy  life.  Reuben  was  accompanied  by  his  son  in  the  expedi- 
tion, for  the  purpose  of  selecting  a  tract  of  land  and  felling  and 
burning  the  timber,  which  necessarily  preceded  the  removal  of 
the  household  gods.  Two  months  of  autumn  were  thus  occu- 
pied after  which  Reuben  Bourne  and  his  young  hunter  returned 
to  spend  their  last  winter  in  the  settlements. 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  May  that  the  little  family 
snapped  asunder  whatever  tendrils  of  affections  had  clung  to 
inanimate  objects,  and  bade  farewell  to  the  few  who,  in  the 
blight  of  fortune,  called  themselves  their  friends.  The  sadness 
of  the  parting  moment  had,  to  each  of  the  pilgrims,  its  peculiar 
alleviations.  Reuben,  a  moody  man,  and  misanthropic  because 
unhappy,  strode  onward  with  his  usual  stem  brow  and  down- 
cast eye,  feeHng  few  regrets  and  disdaining  to  acknowledge  any. 
Dorcas,  while  she  wept  abundantly  over  the  broken  ties  by 
which  her  simple  and  affectionate  nature  had  bound  itself  to 
everything,  felt  that  the  inhabitants  of  her  inmost  heart  moved 
on  with  her,  and  that  all  else  would  be  supplied  wherever  she 
might  go.  And  the  boy  dashed  one  tear-drop  from  his  eye,  and 
thought  of  the  adventurous  pleasures  of  the  untrodden  forest. 

Oh,  who,  in  the  enthusiam  of  a  daydream,  has  not  wished 
that  he  were  a  wanderer  in  a  world  of  summer  wilderness,  with 
one  fair  and  gentle  being  hanging  Hghtly  on  his  arm?  In  youth 
his  free  and  exulting  step  would  know  no  barrier  but  the  rolHng 
ocean  or  the  snow- topped  mountains;  calmer  manhood  would 
choose  a  home  where  Nature  had  strewn  a  double  wealth  in  the 
vale  of  some  transparent  stream;  and  when  hoary  age,  after 
long,  long  years  of  that  pure  life,  stole  on  and  found  him  there, 


264  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

it  would  find  him  the  father  of  a  race,  the  patriarch  of  a  people, 
the  founder  of  a  mighty  nation  yet  to  be.  When  death,  Hke  the 
sweet  sleep  which  we  welcome  after  a  day  of  happiness,  came 
over  him,  his  far  descendants  would  mourn  over  the  venerated 
dust.  Enveloped  by  tradition  in  mysterious  attributes,  the  men 
of  future  generations  would  call  him  godlike;  and  remote 
posterity  would  see  him  standing,  dimly  glorious,  far  up  the 
valley  of  a  hundred  centuries. 

The  tangled  and  gloomy  forest  through  which  the  personages 
of  my  tale  were  wandering  differed  widely  from  the  dreamer's 
land  of  fantasy;  yet  there  was  something  in  their  way  of  life 
that  Nature  asserted  as  her  own,  and  the  gnawing  cares  which 
went  with  them  from  the  world  were  all  that  now  obstructed 
their  happiness.  One  stout  and  shaggy  steed,  the  bearer  of  all 
their  wealth,  did  not  shrink  from  the  added  weight  of  Dorcas; 
although  her  hardy  breeding  sustained  her,  during  the  latter 
part  of  each  day's  journey,  by  her  husband's  side.  Reuben  and 
his  son,  their  muskets  on  their  shoulders  and  their  axes  slung 
behind  them,  kept  an  unwearied  pace,  each  watching  with  a 
hunter's  eye  for  the  game  that  supplied  their  food.  When 
hunger  bade,  they  halted  and  prepared  their  meal  on  the  bank 
of  some  unpolluted  forest  brook,  which,  as  they  knelt  down 
with  thirsty  lips  to  drink,  murmured  a  sweet  unwillingness, 
like  a  maiden  at  love's  first  kiss.  They  slept  beneath  a  hut  of 
branches,  and  awoke  at  peep  of  light  refreshed  for  the  toils  of 
another  day.  Dorcas  and  the  boy  went  on  joyously,  and  even 
Reuben's  spirit  shone  at  intervals  with  an  outward  gladness; 
but  inwardly  there  was  a  cold,  cold  sorrow,  which  he  compared 
to  the  snowdrifts  lying  deep  in  the  glens  and  hollows  of  the 
rivulets  while  the  leaves  were  brightly  green  above. 

Cyrus  Bourne  was  sufficiently  skilled  in  the  travel  of  the 
woods  to  observe  that  his  father  did  not  adhere  to  the  course 
they  had  pursued  in  their  expedition  of  the  preceding  autumn. 
They  were  now  keeping  farther  to  the  north,  striking  out  more 
directly  from  the  settlements,  and  into  a  region  of  which  sav- 
age beasts  and  savage  men  were  as  yet  the  sole  possessors.  The 
boy  sometimes  hinted  his  opinions  upon  the  subject,  and 
Reuben  listened  attentively,  and  once  or  twice  altered  the 
direction  of  their  march  in  accordance  with  his  son's  counsel; 
but,  having  so  done,  he  seemed  ill  at  ease.  His  quick  and  wan- 


ROGER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL  265 

dering  glances  were  sent  forward,  apparently  in  search  of 
enemies  lurking  behind  the  tree  trunks;  and,  seeing  nothing 
there,  he  would  cast  his  eyes  backwards  as  if  in  fear  of  some 
pursuer.  Cyrus,  perceiving  that  his  father  gradually  resumed 
the  old  direction,  forbore  to  interfere;  nor,  though  something 
began  to  weigh  upon  his  heart,  did  his  adventurous  nature  per- 
mit him  to  regret  the  increased  length  and  the  mystery  of  their 
way. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  they  halted,  and  made 
their  simple  encampment  nearly  an  hour  before  sunset.  The 
face  of  the  country,  for  the  last  few  miles,  had  been  diversified 
by  swells  of  land  resembling  huge  waves  of  a  petrified  sea;  and 
in  one  of  the  corresponding  hollows,  a  wild  and  romantic  spot, 
had  the  family  reared  their  hut  and  kindled  their  fire.  There  is 
something  chilling,  and  yet  heart-warming,  in  the  thought  of 
these  three,  united  by  strong  bands  of  love  and  insulated  from 
all  that  breathe  beside.  The  dark  and  gloomy  pines  looked  down 
upon  them,  and,  as  the  wind  swept  through  their  tops,  a  pitying 
sound  was  heard  in  the  forest;  or  did  those  old  trees  groan  in 
fear  that  men  were  come  to  lay  the  axe  to  their  roots  at  last? 
Reuben  and  his  son,  while  Dorcas  made  ready  their  meal,  pro- 
posed to  wander  out  in  search  of  game,  of  which  that  day's 
march  had  afforded  no  supply.  The  boy,  promising  not  to  quit 
the  vicinity  of  the  encampment,  bounded  off  with  a  step  as 
light  and  elastic  as  that  of  the  deer  he  hoped  to  slay;  while  his 
father,  feeling  a  transient  happiness  as  he  gazed  after  him,  was 
about  to  pursue  an  opposite  direction.  Dorcas,  in  the  mean- 
while, had  seated  herself  near  their  fire  of  fallen  branches,  upon 
the  mossgrown  and  mouldering  trunk  of  a  tree  uprooted  years 
before.  Her  emplo)rment,  diversified  by  an  occasional  glance 
at  the  pot,  now  beginning  to  simmer  over  the  blaze,  was  the 
perusal  of  the  current  year's  Massachusetts  Almanac,  which, 
with  the  exception  of  an  old  black-letter  Bible,  comprised  all 
the  literary  wealth  of  the  family.  None  pay  a  greater  regard 
to  arbitrary  divisions  of  time  than  those  who  are  excluded  from 
society;  and  Dorcas  mentioned,  as  if  the  information  were  of 
importance,  that  it  was  now  the  twelfth  of  May.  Her  husband 
started. 

*'  The  twelfth  of  May!  I  should  remember  it  well,"  muttered 
he,  while  many  thoughts  occasioned  a  momentary  confusion  in 


266  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

his  mind.  "Where  am  I?  Whither  am  I  wandering?  Where 
did  I  leave  him?" 

Dorcas,  too  well  accustomed  to  her  husband's  wayward 
moods  to  note  any  peculiarity  of  demeanor,  now  laid  aside  the 
almanac  and  addressed  him  in  that  mournful  tone  which  the 
tender  hearted  appropriate  to  griefs  long  cold  and  dead. 

"It  was  near  this  time  of  the  month,  eighteen  years  ago,  that 
my  poor  father  left  this  world  for  a  better.  He  had  a  kind 
arm  to  hold  his  head  and  a  kind  voice  to  cheer  him,  Reuben,  in 
his  last  moments ;  and  the  thought  of  the  faithful  care  you  took 
of  him  has  comforted  me  many  a  time  since.  Oh,  death  would 
have  been  awful  to  a  solitary  man  in  a  wild  place  like  this!" 

"Pray  Heaven,  Dorcas,"  said  Reuben,  in  a  broken  voice,  — 
"pray  Heaven  that  neither  of  us  three  dies  solitary  and  lies 
unburied  in  this  howling  wilderness!"  And  he  hastened  away, 
leaving  her  to  watch  the  fire  beneath  the  gloomy  pines. 

Reuben  Bourne's  rapid  pace  gradually  slackened  as  the 
pang,  unintentionally  inflicted  by  the  words  of  Dorcas,  became 
less  acute.  Many  strange  reflections,  however,  thronged  upon 
him;  and,  straying  onward  rather  like  a  sleep  walker  than  a 
hunter,  it  was  attributable  to  no  care  of  his  own  that  his  devi- 
ous course  kept  him  in  the  vicinity  of  the  encampment.  His 
steps  were  imperceptibly  led  almost  in  a  circle;  nor  did  he 
observe  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  tract  of  land  heavily  tim- 
bered, but  not  with  pine-trees.  The  place  of  the  latter  was  here 
supplied  by  oaks  and  other  of  the  harder  woods;  and  around 
their  roots  clustered  a  dense  and  bushy  undergrowth,  leaving, 
however,  barren  spaces  between  the  trees,  thick  strewn  with 
withered  leaves.  Whenever  the  rustling  of  the  branches  or  the 
creaking  of  the  trunks  made  a  sound,  as  if  the  forest  were  wak- 
ing from  slumber,  Reuben  instinctively  raised  the  musket  that 
rested  on  his  arm,  and  cast  a  quick,  sharp  glance  on  every  side; 
but,  convinced  by  a  partial  observation  that  no  animal  was 
near,  he  would  again  give  himself  up  to  his  thoughts.  He  was 
musing  on  the  strange  influence  that  had  led  him  away  from 
his  premeditated  course,  and  so  far  into  the  depths  of  the  wil- 
derness. Unable  to  penetrate  to  the  secret  place  of  his  soul 
where  his  motives  lay  hidden,  he  believed  that  a  supernatural 
voice  had  called  him  onward,  and  that  a  supernatural  power 
had  obstructed  his  retreat.  He  trusted  that  it  was  Heaven's 


ROGER   IVIALVIN'S  BURIAL  267 

intent  to  afford  him  an  opportunity  of  expiating  his  sin;  he 
hoped  that  he  might  find  the  bones  so  long  unburied;  and  that, 
having  laid  the  earth  over  them,  peace  would  throw  its  sunUght 
into  the  sepulchre  of  his  heart.  From  these  thoughts  he  was 
aroused  by  a  rustling  in  the  forest  at  some  distance  from  the 
spot  to  which  he  had  wandered.  Perceiving  the  motion  of  some 
object  behind  a  thick  veil  of  undergrowth,  he  fired,  with  the 
instinct  of  a  hunter  and  the  aim  of  a  practiced  marksman.  A 
low  moan,  which  told  his  success,  and  by  which  even  animals 
can  express  their  dying  agony,  was  unheeded  by  Reuben 
Bourne.  What  were  the  recollections  now  breaking  upon  him? 
The  thicket  into  which  Reuben  had  fired  was  near  the  sum- 
mit of  a  swell  of  land,  and  was  clustered  around  the  base  of  a 
rock,  which,  in  the  shape  and  smoothness  of  one  of  its  surfaces, 
was  not  unlike  a  gigantic  gravestone.  As  if  reflected  in  a  mirror, 
its  likeness  was  in  Reuben's  memory.  He  even  recognized  the 
veins  which  seemed  to  form  an  inscription  in  forgotten  char- 
acters: everything  remained  the  same,  except  that  a  thick 
covert  of  bushes  shrouded  the  lower  part  of  the  rock,  and  would 
have  hidden  Roger  Malvin  had  he  still  been  sitting  there.  Yet 
in  the  next  moment  Reuben's  eye  was  caught  by  another 
change  that  time  had  effected  since  he  last  stood  where  he  was 
now  standing  again  behind  the  earthy  roots  of  the  uptom  tree. 
The  sapling  to  which  he  had  bound  the  bloodstained  symbol 
of  his  vow  had  increased  and  strengthened  into  an  oak,  far 
indeed  from  its  maturity,  but  with  no  mean  spread  of  shadowy 
branches.  There  was  one  singularity  observable  in  this  tree 
which  made  Reuben  tremble.  The  middle  and  lower  branches 
were  in  luxuriant  life,  and  an  excess  of  vegetation  had  fringed 
the  trunk  almost  to  the  ground;  but  a  blight  had  apparently 
stricken  the  upper  part  of  the  oak,  and  the  very  topmost  bough 
was  withered,  sapless,  and  utterly  dead.  Reuben  remembered 
how  the  little  banner  had  fluttered  on  that  topmost  bough, 
when  it  was  green  and  lovely,  eighteen  years  before.  Whose 
guilt  had  blasted  it? 

Dorcas,  after  the  departure  of  the  two  hunters,  continued 
her  preparations  for  their  evening  repast.  Her  sylvan  table 
was  the  moss-covered  trunk  of  a  large  fallen  tree,  on  the  broad- 
est part  of  which  she  had  spread  a  snow-white  cloth  and 


268  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

arranged  what  were  left  of  the  bright  pewter  vessels  that  had 
been  her  pride  in  the  settlements.  It  had  a  strange  aspect, 
that  one  Httle  spot  of  homely  comfort  in  the  desolate  heart  of 
Nature.  The  sunshine  yet  lingered  upon  the  higher  branches 
of  the  trees  that  grew  on  rising  ground;  but  the  shadows  of 
evening  had  deepened  into  the  hollow  where  the  encampment 
was  made,  and  the  firelight  began  to  redden  as  it  gleamed  up 
the  tall  trunks  of  the  pines  or  hovered  on  the  dense  and  obscure 
mass  of  foliage  that  circled  round  the  sp>ot.  The  heart  of  Dorcas 
was  not  sad;  for  she  felt  that  it  was  better  to  journey  in  the 
wilderness  with  two  whom  she  loved  than  to  be  a  lonely  woman 
in  a  crowd  that  cared  not  for  her.  As  she  busied  herself  in 
arranging  seats  of  mouldering  wood,  covered  with  leaves,  for 
Reuben  and  her  son,  her  voice  danced  through  the  gloomy 
forest  in  the  measure  of  a  song  that  she  had  learned  in  youth. 
The  rude  melody,  the  production  of  a  bard  who  won  no  name, 
was  descriptive  of  a  winter  evening  in  a  frontier  cottage,  when, 
secured  from  savage  inroad  by  the  high-piled  snow-drifts,  the 
family  rejoiced  by  their  own  fireside.  The  whole  song  possessed 
the  nameless  charm  peculiar  to  unborrowed  thought,  but  four 
continually-recurring  lines  shone  out  from  the  rest  like  the 
blaze  of  the  hearth  whose  joys  they  celebrated.  Into  them, 
working  magic  with  a  few  simple  words,  the  poet  had  instilled 
the  very  essence  of  domestic  love  and  household  happiness, 
and  they  were  poetry  and  picture  joined  in  one.  As  Dorcas 
sang,  the  walls  of  her  forsaken  home  seemed  to  encircle  her; 
she  no  longer  saw  the  gloomy  pines,  nor  heard  the  wind  which 
still,  as  she  began  each  verse,  sent  a  heavy  breath  through  the 
branches,  and  died  away  in  a  hollow  moan  from  the  burden  of 
the  song.  She  was  aroused  by  the  report  of  a  gun  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  the  encampment;  and  either  the  sudden  sound,  or  her 
loneliness  by  the  glowing  fire,  caused  her  to  tremble  violently. 
The  next  moment  she  laughed  in  the  pride  of  a  mother's  heart. 

"  My  beautiful  young  hunter !  My  boy  has  slain  a  deer ! "  she 
exclaimed,  recollecting  that  in  the  direction  whence  the  shot 
proceeded  Cyrus  had  gone  to  the  chase. 

She  waited  a  reasonable  time  to  hear  her  son's  light  step 
bounding  over  the  rustling  leaves  to  tell  of  his  success.  But  he 
did  not  immediately  appear;  and  she  sent  her  cheerful  voice 
among  the  trees  in  search  of  him. 


ROGER   MALVIN'S  BURIAL  269 

''Cyrus!  Cyrus!" 

His  coming  was  still  delayed;  and  she  determined,  as  the 
report  had  apparently  been  very  near,  to  seek  for  him  in  per- 
son. Her  assistance,  also,  might  be  necessary  in  bringing  home 
the  venison  which  she  flattered  herself  he  had  obtained.  She 
therefore  set  forward,  directing  her  steps  by  the  long-past 
sound,  and  singing  as  she  went,  in  order  that  the  boy  might  be 
aware  of  her  approach  and  run  to  meet  her.  From  behind  the 
trunk  of  every  tree,  and  from  every  hiding-place  in  the  thick 
foKage  of  the  undergrowth,  she  hoped  to  discover  the  counte- 
nance of  her  son,  laughing  with  the  sportive  mischief  that  is 
born  of  affection.  The  sun  was  now  beneath  the  horizon,  and 
the  light  that  came  down  among  the  leaves  was  sufficiently  dim 
to  create  many  illusions  in  her  expecting  fancy.  Several  times 
she  seemed  indistinctly  to  see  his  face  gazing  out  from  among 
the  leaves;  and  once  she  imagined  that  he  stood  beckoning  to 
her  at  the  base  of  a  craggy  rock.  Keeping  her  eyes  on  this 
object,  however,  it  proved  to  be  no  more  than  the  tnmk  of  an 
oak  fringed  to  the  very  ground  with  little  branches,  one  of 
which,  thrust  out  farther  than  the  rest,  was  shaken  by  the 
breeze.  Making  her  way  round  the  foot  of  the  rock,  she  sud- 
denly found  herself  close  to  her  husband,  who  had  approached 
in  another  direction.  Leaning  upon  the  butt  of  his  gun,  the 
muzzle  of  which  rested  upon  the  withered  leaves,  he  was  appar- 
ently absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  some  object  at  his  feet. 

**How  is  this,  Reuben?  Have  you  slain  the  deer  and  fallen 
asleep  over  him?"  exclaimed  Dorcas,  laughing  cheerfully,  on 
her  first  slight  observation  of  his  posture  and  appearance. 

He  stirred  not,  neither  did  he  turn  his  eyes  towards  her;  and 
a  cold,  shuddering  fear,  indefinite  in  its  source  and  object, 
began  to  creep  into  her  blood.  She  now  perceived  that  her 
husband's  face  was  ghastly  pale,  and  his  features  were  rigid, 
as  if  incapable  of  assuming  any  other  expression  than  the 
strong  despair  which  had  hardened  upon  them.  He  gave  not  the 
slightest  evidence  that  he  was  aware  of  her  approach. 

''For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Reuben,  speak  to  me!"  cried 
Dorcas;  and  the  strange  sound  of  her  own  voice  affrighted  her 
even  more  than  the  dead  silence. 

Her  husband  started,  stared  into  her  face,  drew  her  to  the 
front  of  the  rock,  and  pointed  with  his  finger. 


270  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

Oh,  there  lay  the  boy,  asleep,  but  dreamless,  upon  the  fallen 
forest  leaves!  His  cheek  rested  upon  his  arm  —  his  curled  locks 
were  thrown  back  from  his  brow  —  his  limbs  were  slightly 
relaxed.  Had  a  sudden  weariness  overcome  the  youthful 
hunter?  Would  his  mother's  voice  arouse  him?  She  knew  that 
it  was  death. 

"This  broad  rock  is  the  gravestone  of  your  near  kindred, 
Dorcas,"  said  her  husband.  "Your  tears  will  fall  at  once  over 
your  father  and  your  son." 

She  heard  him  not.  With  one  wild  shriek,  that  seemed  to 
force  its  way  from  the  sufferer's  inmost  soul,  she  sank  insensible 
by  the  side  of  her  dead  boy.  At  that  moment  the  withered  top- 
most bough  of  the  oak  loosened  itself  in  the  stilly  air,  and  fell 
in  soft,  Hght  fragments  upon  the  rock,  upon  the  leaves,  upon 
Reuben,  upon  his  wife  and  child,  and  upon  Roger  Malvin's 
bones.  Then  Reuben's  heart  was  stricken,  and  the  tears  gushed 
out  like  water  from  a  rock.  The  vow  that  the  wounded  youth 
had  made  the  blighted  man  had  come  to  redeem.  His  sin  was 
expiated,  —  the  curse  was  gone  from  him;  and  in  the  hour 
when  he  had  shed  blood  dearer  to  him  than  his  own,  a  prayer, 
the  first  for  years,  went  up  to  Heaven  from  the  lips  of  Reuben 
Bourne. 

RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER! 

[from  the  writings  of  aub^pine] 

We  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  any  translated  specimens 
of  the  productions  of  M.  de  I'Aubepine  —  a  fact  the  less  to  be 
wondered  at,  as  his  very  name  is  unknown  to  many  of  his  own 
countrymen  as  well  as  to  the  student  of  foreign  literature.  As  a 
writer,  he  seems  to  occupy  an  unfortunate  position  between 
the  Transcendentalists  (who,  under  one  name  or  another,  have 
their  share  in  all  the  current  literature  of  the  world)  and  the 
great  body  of  pen-and-ink  men  who  address  the  intellect  and 
sympathies  of  the  multitude.  If  not  too  refined,  at  all  events 
too  remote,  too  shadowy,  and  unsubstantial  in  his  modes  of 
development  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  latter  class,  and  yet  too 

^  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.  Aub6pine  (French  for  "hawthorn")  was  one  of 
the  pen-names  assumed  by  Hawthorne.  The  titles  in  the  second  paragraph  are 
the  French  equivalents  for  the  titles  of  some  of  the  Twice-Told  Tales. 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  271 

popular  to  satisfy  the  spiritual  or  metaphysical  requisitions  of 
the  former,  he  must  necessarily  find  himself  without  an  audi- 
ence, except  here  and  there  an  individual  or  possibly  an  iso- 
lated clique.  His  writings,  to  do  them  justice,  are  not  altogether 
destitute  of  fancy  and  originaUty;  they  might  have  won  him 
greater  reputation  but  for  an  inveterate  love  of  allegory,  which 
is  apt  to  invest  his  plots  and  characters  with  the  aspect  of  scen- 
ery and  people  in  the  clouds,  and  to  steal  away  the  human 
warmth  out  of  his  conceptions.  His  fictions  are  sometimes  his- 
torical, sometimes  of  the  present  day,  and  sometimes,  so  far 
as  can  be  discovered,  have  little  or  no  reference  either  to  time 
or  space.  In  any  case,  he  generally  contents  himself  with  a 
very  slight  embroidery  of  outward  manners,  —  the  faintest 
possible  counterfeit  of  real  life,  —  and  endeavors  to  create  an 
interest  by  some  less  obvious  peculiarity  of  the  subject.  Occa- 
sionally a  breath  of  Nature,  a  raindrop  of  pathos  and  tender- 
ness, or  a  gleam  of  humor,  will  find  its  way  into  the  midst  of 
his  fantastic  imagery,  and  make  us  feel  as  if,  after  all,  we  were 
yet  within  the  limits  of  our  native  earth.  We  will  only  add  to 
this  very  cursory  notice  that  M.  de  I'Aubepine's  productions, 
if  the  reader  chance  to  take  them  in  precisely  the  proper  point 
of  view,  may  amuse  a  leisure  hour  as  well  as  those  of  a  brighter 
man;  if  otherwise,  they  can  hardly  fail  to  look  excessively  like 
nonsense. 

Our  author  is  voluminous;  he  continues  to  write  and  publish 
with  as  much  praiseworthy  and  indefatigable  prolixity  as  if  his 
efforts  were  crowned  with  the  brilliant  success  that  so  justly 
attends  those  of  Eugene  Sue.  His  first  appearance  was  by  a 
collection  of  stories  in  a  long  series  of  volumes  entitled  "  Contes 
deux  fois  racontes."  The  titles  of  some  of  his  more  recent 
works  (we  quote  from  memory)  are  as  follows:  "Le  Voyage 
Celeste  a  Chemin  de  Fer,"  3  tom.,  1838;  "Le  nouveau  Pere 
Adam  et  la  nouvelle  Mere  Eve,"  2  tom.,  1839;  ''Roderic;  ou  le 
Serpent  a  I'estomac,"  2  torn.,  1840;  "Le  Culte  du  Feu,"  a  folio 
volume  of  ponderous  research  into  the  religion  and  ritual  of  the 
old  Persian  Ghebers,  published  in  1841 ;  "La  Soiree  du  Chateau 
en  Espagne,"  i  torn.,  8vo,  1842;  and  "L'Artiste  du  Beau;  ou  le 
Papillon  Mecanique,"  5  tom.,  4to,  1843.  C)ur  somewhat  weari- 
some perusal  of  this  startling  catalogue  of  volumes  has  left 
behind  it  a  certain  personal  affection  and  sympathy,  though 


272  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

by  no  means  admiration,  for  M.  de  I'Aubepine;  and  we  would 
fain  do  the  little  in  our  power  towards  introducing  him  favor- 
ably to  the  American  public.  The  ensuing  tale  is  a  translation 
of  his  "Beatrice;  ou  la  Belle  Empoisonneuse,"  recently  pub- 
lished in  "La  Revue  Anti-Aristocratique."  This  journal, 
edited  by  the  Comte  de  Bearhaven,  has  for  some  years  past 
led  the  defence  of  liberal  principles  and  popular  rights  with  a 
faithfulness  and  ability  worthy  of  all  praise. 

A  young  man,  named  Giovanni  Guasconti,  came,  very  long 
ago,  from  the  more  southern  region  of  Italy,  to  pursue  his 
studies  at  the  University  of  Padua.  Giovanni,  who  had  but  a 
scanty  supply  of  gold  ducats  in  his  pocket,  took  lodgings  in  a 
high  and  gloomy  chamber  of  an  old  edifice  which  looked  not 
unworthy  to  have  been  the  palace  of  a  Paduan  noble,  and  which, 
in  fact,  exhibited  over  its  entrance  the  armorial  bearings  of  a 
family  long  since  extinct.  The  young  stranger,  who  was  not 
unstudied  in  the  great  poem  of  his  country,  recollected  that 
one  of  the  ancestors  of  this  family,  and  perhaps  an  occupant 
of  this  very  mansion,  had  been  pictured  by  Dante  as  a  par- 
taker of  the  immortal  agonies  of  his  Inferno.  These  reminis- 
cences and  associations,  together  with  the  tendency  to  heart- 
break natural  to  a  young  man  for  the  first  time  out  of  his 
native  sphere,  caused  Giovanni  to  sigh  heavily  as  he  looked 
•around  the  desolate  and  ill-furnished  apartment. 

"Holy  Virgin,  signor!"  cried  old  Dame  Lisabetta,  who,  won 
by  the  youth's  remarkable  beauty  of  person,  was  kindly  en- 
deavoring to  give  the  chamber  a  habitable  air,  "what  a  sigh 
was  that  to  come  out  of  a  young  man's  heart!  Do  you  find  this 
old  mansion  gloomy?  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  then,  put  your 
head  out  of  the  window,  and  you  will  see  as  bright  sunshine  as 
you  have  left  in  Naples." 

Guasconti  mechanically  did  as  the  old  woman  advised,  but 
could  not  quite  agree  with  her  that  the  Paduan  sunshine  was  as 
cheerful  as  that  of  southern  Italy.  Such  as  it  was,  however,  it 
fell  upon  a  garden  beneath  the  window  and  expended  its  fos- 
tering influences  on  a  variety  of  plants,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  cultivated  with  exceeding  care. 

"Does  this  garden  belong  to  the  house?"  asked  Giovanni. 

"Heaven  forbid,  signor,  unless  it  were  fruitful  of  better  pot 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  273 

herbs  than  any  that  grow  there  now/'  answered  old  Lisabetta. 
"No;  that  garden  is  cultivated  by  the  own  hands  of  Signor 
Giacomo  Rappaccini,  the  famous  doctor,  who,  I  warrant  him, 
has  been  heard  of  as  far  as  Naples.  It  is  said  that  he  distils  these 
plants  into  medicines  that  are  as  potent  as  a  charm.  Often- 
times you  may  see  the  signor  doctor  at  work,  and  perchance  the 
signora,  his  daughter,  too,  gathering  the  strange  flowers  that 
grow  in  the  garden." 

The  old  woman  had  now  done  what  she  could  for  the  aspect 
of  the  chamber;  and,  commending  the  young  man  to  the  pro- 
tection of  the  saints,  took  her  departure. 

Giovanni  still  found  no  better  occupation  than  to  look  down 
into  the  garden  beneath  his  window.  From  its  appearance,  he 
judged  it  to  be  one  of  those  botanic  gardens  which  were  of 
earlier  date  in  Padua  than  elsewhere  in  Italy  or  in  the  world. 
Or,  not  improbably,  it  might  once  have  been  the  pleasure- 
place  of  an  opulent  family;  for  there  was  the  ruin  of  a  marble 
f oimtain  in  the  centre,  sculptured  with  rare  art,  but  so  wof uUy 
shattered  that  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the  original  design 
from  the  chaos  of  remaining  fragments.  The  water,  however, 
continued  to  gush  and  sparkle  into  the  sunbeams  as  cheerfully 
as  ever.  A  Httle  gurgling  sound  ascended  to  the  young  man's 
window,  and  made  him  feel  as  if  the  fountain  were  an  immortal 
spirit  that  sung  its  song  unceasingly  and  without  heeding  the 
vicissitudes  around  it,  while  one  century  embodied  it  in  marble 
and  another  scattered  the  perishable  garniture  on  the  soil.  All 
about  the  pool  into  which  the  water  subsided  grew  various 
plants,  that  seemed  to  require  a  plentiful  supply  of  moisture 
for  the  nourishment  of  gigantic  leaves,  and,  in  some  instances, 
flowers  gorgeously  magnificent.  There  was  one  shrub  in  par- 
ticular, set  in  a  marble  vase  in  the  midst  of  the  pool,  that  bore 
a  profusion  of  purple  blossoms,  each  of  which  had  the  lustre  and 
richness  of  a  gem;  and  the  whole  together  made  a  show  so 
resplendent  that  it  seemed  enough  to  illuminate  the  garden, 
even  had  there  been  no  sunshine.  Every  portion  of  the  soil  was 
peopled  with  plants  and  herbs,  which,  if  less  beautiful,  still 
bore  tokens  of  assiduous  care,  as  if  all  had  their  individual 
virtues,  known  to  the  scientific  mind  that  fostered  them.  Some 
were  placed  in  urns,  rich  with  old  carving,  and  others  in  com- 
mon garden  pots;  some  crept  serpent-like  along  the  groimd  or 


274  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

climbed  on  high,  using  whatever  means  of  ascent  was  offered 
them.  One  plant  had  wreathed  itself  round  a  statue  of  Vertum- 
nus,  which  was  thus  quite  veiled  and  shrouded  in  a  drapery  of 
hanging  foliage,  so  happily  arranged  that  it  might  have  served 
a  sculptor  for  a  study. 

While  Giovanni  stood  at  the  window  he  heard  a  rustling 
behind  a  screen  of  leaves,  and  became  aware  that  a  person  was 
at  work  in  the  garden.  His  figure  soon  emerged  into  view,  and 
showed  itself  to  be  that  of  no  common  laborer,  but  a  tall, 
emaciated,  sallow,  and  sickly-looking  man,  dressed  in  a  schol- 
ar's garb  of  black.  He  was  beyond  the  middle  term  of  life, 
with  gray  hair,  a  thin,  gray  beard,  and  a  face  singularly  marked 
with  intellect  and  cultivation,  but  which  could  never,  even  in 
his  more  youthful  days,  have  expressed  much  warmth  of  heart. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  intentness  with  which  this  scien- 
tific gardener  examined  every  shrub  which  grew  in  his  path:  it 
seemed  as  if  he  was  looking  into  their  inmost  nature,  making 
observations  in  regard  to  their  creative  essence,  and  discover- 
ing why  one  leaf  grew  in  this  shape  and  another  in  that,  and 
wherefore  such  and  such  flowers  differed  among  themselves  in 
hue  and  perfume.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  this  deep  intelligence 
on  his  part,  there  was  no  approach  to  intimacy  between  himself 
and  these  vegetable  existences.  On  the  contrary,  he  avoided 
their  actual  touch  or  the  direct  inhaling  of  their  odors  with  a 
caution  that  impressed  Giovanni  most  disagreeably;  for  the 
man's  demeanor  was  that  of  one  walking  among  malignant 
influences,  such  as  savage  beasts,  or  deadly  snakes,  or  evil 
spirits,  which,  should  he  allow  them  one  moment  of  license, 
would  wreak  upon  him  some  terrible  fatality.  It  was  strangely 
frightful  to  the  young  man's  imagination  to  see  this  air  of 
insecurity  in  a  person  cultivating  a  garden,  that  most  simple 
and  innocent  of  human  toils,  and  which  had  been  alike  the  joy 
and  labor  of  the  unfallen  parents  of  the  race.  Was  this  garden, 
then,  the  Eden  of  the  present  world?  And  this  man,  with  such 
a  perception  of  harm  in  what  his  own  hands  caused  to  grow,  — 
was  he  the  Adam? 

The  distrustful  gardener,  while  plucking  away  the  dead 
leaves  or  pruning  the  too  luxuriant  growth  of  the  shrubs,  de- 
fended his  hands  with  a  pair  of  thick  gloves.  Nor  were  these 
his  only  armor.   When,  in  his  walk  through  the  garden,  he 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  275 

came  to  the  magnificent  plant  that  hung  its  purple  gems  beside 
the  marble  fountain,  he  placed  a  kind  of  mask  over  his  mouth 
and  nostrils,  as  if  all  this  beauty  did  but  conceal  a  deadlier 
malice;  but,  finding  his  task  still  too  dangerous,  he  drew  back, 
removed  the  mask,  and  called  loudly,  but  in  the  infirm  voice 
of  a  person  affected  with  inward  disease,  — 

''Beatrice!  Beatrice!" 

"Here  am  I,  my  father.  What  would  you? '^  cried  a  rich  and 
youthful  voice  from  the  window  of  the  opposite  house  —  a 
voice  as  rich  as  a  tropical  sunset,  and  which  made  Giovanni, 
though  he  knew  not  why,  think  of  deep  hues  of  purple  or  crim- 
son and  of  perfiunes  heavily  delectable.  ''Are  you  in  the 
garden?  '* 

"Yes,  Beatrice,"  answered  the  gardener,  "and  I  need  your 
help." 

Soon  there  emerged  from  under  a  sculptured  portal  the 
figure  of  a  young  girl,  arrayed  with  as  much  richness  of  taste 
as  the  most  splendid  of  the  flowers,  beautiful  as  the  day,  and 
with  a  bloom  so  deep  and  vivid  that  one  shade  more  would 
have  been  too  much.  She  looked  redundant  with  life,  health, 
and  energy;  all  of  which  attributes  were  bound  down  and  com- 
pressed, as  it  were,  and  girdled  tensely,  in  their  luxuriance,  by 
her  virgin  zone.  Yet  Giovanni^s  fancy  must  have  grown  mor- 
bid while  he  looked  down  into  the  garden;  for  the  impression 
which  the  fair  stranger  made  upon  him  was  as  if  here  were 
another  flower,  the  human  sister  of  those  vegetable  ones,  as 
beautiful  as  they,  more  beautiful  than  the  richest  of  them,  but 
still  to  be  touched  only  with  a  glove,  nor  to  be  approached  with- 
out a  mask.  As  Beatrice  came  down  the  garden  path,  it  was 
observ^able  that  she  handled  and  inhaled  the  odor  of  several  of 
the  plants  which  her  father  had  most  sedulously  avoided. 

"Here,  Beatrice,"  said  the  latter,  "see  how  many  needful 
offices  require  to  be  done  to  our  chief  treasure.  Yet,  shattered 
as  I  am,  my  life  might  pay  the  penalty  of  approaching  it  so 
closely  as  circumstances  demand.  Henceforth,  I  fear,  this 
plant  must  be  consigned  to  your  sole  charge." 

"And  gladly  will  I  undertake  it,"  cried  again  the  rich  tones 
of  the  young  lady,  as  she  bent  towards  the  magnificent  plant 
and  opened  her  arms  as  if  to  embrace  it.  "Yes,  my  sister,  my 
splendor,  it  shall  be  Beatrice's  task  to  nurse  and  serve  thee; 


276  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

and  thou  shalt  reward  her  with  thy  kisses  and  perfumed  breath, 
which  to  her  is  as  the  breath  of  Hfe." 

Then,  with  all  the  tenderness  in  her  manner  that  was  so 
strikingly  expressed  in  her  words,  she  busied  herself  with  such 
attentions  as  the  plant  seemed  to  require;  and  Giovanni,  at  his 
lofty  window,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  almost  doubted  whether  it 
were  a  girl  tending  her  favorite  flower,  or  one  sister  performing 
the  duties  of  affection  to  another.  The  scene  soon  terminated. 
Whether  Dr.  Rappaccini  had  finished  his  labors  in  the  garden, 
or  that  his  watchful  eye  had  caught  the  stranger's  face,  he  now 
took  his  daughter's  arm  and  retired.  Night  was  already  closing 
in;  oppressive  exhalations  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  plants 
and  steal  upward  past  the  open  window;  and  Giovanni,  closing 
the  lattice,  went  to  his  couch  and  dreamed  of  a  rich  flower  and 
beautiful  girl.  Flower  and  maiden  were  different,  and  yet  the 
same,  and  fraught  with  some  strange  peril  in  either  shape. 

But  there  is  an  influence  in  the  light  of  morning  that  tends  to 
rectify  whatever  errors  of  fancy,  or  even  of  judgment,  we  may 
have  incurred  during  the  sun's  decline,  or  among  the  shadows 
of  the  night,  or  in  the  less  wholesome  glow  of  moonshine. 
Giovanni's  first  movement,  on  starting  from  sleep,  was  to  throw 
open  the  window  and  gaze  down  into  the  garden  which  his 
dreams  had  made  so  fertile  of  mysteries.  He  was  surprised 
and  a  Uttle  ashamed  to  find  how  real  and  matter-of-fact  an 
affair  it  proved  to  be,  in  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  which  gilded 
the  dew-drops  that  hung  upon  leaf  and  blossom,  and,  while 
giving  a  brighter  beauty  to  each  rare  flower,  brought  every- 
thing within  the  Hmits  of  ordinary  experience.  The  young  man 
rejoiced  that,  in  the  heart  of  the  barren  city,  he  had  the  privi- 
lege of  overlooking  this  spot  of  lovely  and  luxuriant  vegetation. 
It  would  serve,  he  said  to  himself,  as  a  symbolic  language  to 
keep  him  in  communion  with  Nature.  !  Neither  the  sickly  and 
thoughtworn  Dr.  Giacomo  Rappaccini,  it  is  true,  nor  his 
brilliant  daughter,  were  now  visible;  so  that  Giovanni  could 
not  determine  how  much  of  the  singularity  which  he  attributed 
to  both  was  due  to  their  own  qualities  and  how  nmch  to  his 
wonder-working  fancy;  but  he  was  inclined  to  take  a  most 
rational  view  of  the  whole  matter. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  he  paid  his  respects  to  Signor  Pietro 
Baglioni,  professor  of  medicine  in  the  university,  a  physician 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  277 

of  eminent  repute,  to  whom  Giovanni  had  brought  a  letter  of 
introduction.  The  professor  was  an  elderly  personage,  appar- 
ently of  genial  nature,  and  habits  that  might  almost  be  called 
jovial.  He  kept  the  young  man  to  dinner,  and  made  himself 
very  agreeable  by  the  freedom  and  liveliness  of  his  conversation, 
especially  when  warmed  by  a  flask  or  two  of  Tuscan  wine. 
Giovanni,  conceiving  that  men  of  science,  inhabitants  of  the 
same  city,  must  needs  be  on  familiar  terms  with  one  another, 
took  an  opportunity  to  mention  the  name  of  Dr.  Rappaccini. 
But  the  professor  did  not  respond  with  so  much  cordiality  as 
he  had  anticipated. 

"Ill  would  it  become  a  teacher  of  the  divine  art  of  medicine," 
said  Professor  Pietro  Baglioni,  in  answer  to  a  question  of 
Giovanni,  "to  withhold  due  and  well-considered  praise  of  a 
physician  so  eminently  skilled  as  Rappaccini;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  should  answer  it  but  scantily  to  my  conscience  were  I  to 
permit  a  worthy  youth  like  yourself,  Signor  Giovanni,  the  son 
of  an  ancient  friend,  to  imbibe  erroneous  ideas  respecting  a 
man  who  might  hereafter  chance  to  hold  your  life  and  death  in 
his  hands.  The  truth  is,  our  worshipful  Dr.  Rappaccini  has  as 
much  science  as  any  member  of  the  faculty  —  with  perhaps  one 
single  exception  —  in  Padua,  or  all  Italy;  but  there  are  certain 
grave  objections  to  his  professional  character." 

"And  what  are  they?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"Has  my  friend  Giovanni  any  disease  of  body  or  heart,  that 
he  is  so  inquisitive  about  physicians?"  said  the  professor,  with 
a  smile.  "But  as  for  Rappaccini,  it  is  said  of  him  —  and  I, 
who  know  the  man  well,  can  answer  for  its  truth  —  that  he 
cares  infinitely  more  for  science  than  for  mankind.  His  patients 
are  interesting  to  him  only  as  subjects  for  some  new  experiment. 
He  would  sacrifice  human  Hfe,  his  own  among  the  rest,  or  what- 
ever else  was  dearest  to  him,  for  the  sake  of  adding  so  much  as 
a  grain  of  mustard  seed  to  the  great  heap  of  his  accumulated 
knowledge." 

"Methinks  he  is  an  awful  man  indeed,"  remarked  Guasconti, 
mentally  recalling  the  cold  and  purely  intellectual  aspect  of 
Rappaccini.  "And  yet,  worshipful  professor,  is  it  not  a  noble 
spirit?  Are  there  many  men  capable  of  so  spiritual  a  love  of 
science?" 

"God  forbid,"  answered  the  professor,  somewhat  testily; 


278  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

"at  least,  unless  they  take  sounder  views  of  the  healing  art 
than  those  adopted  by  Rappaccini.  It  is  his  theory  that  all 
medicinal  virtues  are  comprised  within  those  substances  which 
we  term  vegetable  poisons.  These  he  cultivates  with  his  own 
hands,  and  is  said  even  to  have  produced  new  varieties  of 
poison,  more  horribly  deleterious  than  Nature,  without  the 
assistance  of  this  learned  person,  would  ever  have  plagued  the 
world  withal.  That  the  signor  doctor  does  less  mischief  than 
might  be  expected  with  such  dangerous  substances  is  undeni- 
able. Now  and  then,  it  must  be  owned,  he  has  effected,  or 
seemed  to  efifect,  a  marvellous  cure;  but,  to  tell  you  my  private 
mind,  Signor  Giovanni,  he  should  receive  little  credit  for  such 
instances  of  success,  —  they  being  probably  the  work  of 
chance,  —  but  should  be  held  strictly  accountable  for  his 
failures,  which  may  justly  be  considered  his  own  work." 

The  youth  might  have  taken  Baglioni's  opinions  with  many 
grains  of  allowance  had  he  known  that  there  w^as  a  professional 
warfare  of  long  continuance  between  him  and  Dr.  Rappaccini, 
in  which  the  latter  was  generally  thought  to  have  gained  the 
advantage.  If  the  reader  be  inclined  to  judge  for  himself,  we 
refer  him  to  certain  black-letter  tracts  on  both  sides,  preserved 
in  the  medical  department  of  the  University  of  Padua. 

"I  know  not,  most  learned  professor,'^  returned  Giovanni, 
after  musing  on  what  had  been  said  of  Rappaccini's  exclusive 
zeal  for  science,  —  ''I  know  not  how  dearly  this  physician  may 
love  his  art;  but  surely  there  is  one  object  more  dear  to  him. 
He  has  a  daughter." 

"Aha!"  cried  the  professor,  with  a  laugh.  "So  now  our 
friend  Giovanni's  secret  is  out.  You  have  heard  of  this  daugh- 
ter, whom  all  the  young  men  in  Padua  are  wild  about,  though 
not  half  a  dozen  have  ever  had  the  good  hap  to  see  her  face.  I 
know  little  of  the  Signora  Beatrice  save  that  Rappaccini  is 
said  to  have  instructed  her  deeply  in  his  science,  and  that, 
young  and  beautiful  as  fame  reports  her,  she  is  already  qualified 
to  fill  a  professor's  chair.  Perchance  her  father  destines  her 
for  mine!  Other  absurd  rumors  there  be,  not  worth  talking 
about  or  listening  to.  So  now,  Signor  Giovanni,  drink  off  your 
glass  of  lachryma." 

Guasconti  returned  to  his  lodgings  somew^hat  heated  with 
the  wine  he  had  quaffed,  and  which  caused  his  brain  to  swim 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  279 

with  strange  fantasies  in  reference  to  Dr.  Rappaccini  and  the 
beautiful  Beatrice.  On  his  way,  happening  to  pass  by  a  flor- 
ist's, he  bought  a  fresh  bouquet  of  flowers. 

Ascending  to  his  chamber,  he  seated  himself  near  the  win- 
dow, but  within  the  shadow  thrown  by  the  depth  of  the  wall, 
so  that  he  could  look  down  into  the  garden  with  little  risk  of 
being  discovered.  All  beneath  his  eye  was  a  solitude.  The 
strange  plants  were  basking  in  the  sunshine,  and  now  and  then 
nodding  gently  to  one  another,  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of 
sympathy  and  kindred.  In  the  midst,  by  the  shattered  foun- 
tain, grew  the  magnificent  shrub,  with  its  purple  gems  cluster- 
ing all  over  it;  they  glowed  in  the  air,  and  gleamed  back  again 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  pool,  which  thus  seemed  to  overflow 
with  colored  radiance  from  the  rich  reflection  that  was  steeped 
in  it.  At  first,  as  we  have  said,  the  garden  was  a  soHtude.  Soon, 
however,  —  as  Giovanni  had  half  hoped,  hah  feared,  would  be 
the  case,  —  a  figure  appeared  beneath  the  antique  sculptured 
portal,  and  came  down  between  the  rows  of  plants,  inhaling 
their  various  perfimies  as  if  she  were  one  of  those  beings  of  old 
classic  fable  that  lived  upon  sweet  odors.  On  again  beholding 
Beatrice,  the  young  man  was  even  startled  to  perceive  how 
much  her  beauty  exceeded  his  recollection  of  it;  so  brilliant,  so 
vivid,  was  its  character,  that  she  glowed  amid  the  sunlight,  and, 
as  Giovanni  whispered  to  himself,  positively  illuminated  the 
more  shadowy  intervals  of  the  garden  path.  Her  face  being 
now  more  revealed  than  on  the  former  occasion,  he  was  struck 
by  its  expression  of  simplicity  and  sweetness,  —  qualities  that 
had  not  entered  into  his  idea  of  her  character,  and  which  made 
him  ask  anew  what  manner  of  mortal  she  might  be.  Nor  did 
he  fail  again  to  observe,  or  imagine,  an  analogy  between  the 
beautiful  girl  and  the  gorgeous  shrub  that  hung  its  gemhke 
flowers  over  the  fountain,  —  a  resemblance  which  Beatrice 
seemed  to  have  indulged  a  fantastic  humor  in  heightening, 
both  by  the  arrangement  of  her  dress  and  the  selection  of  its 
hues. 

Approaching  the  shrub,  she  threw  open  her  arms,  as  with  a 
passionate  ardor,  and  drew  its  branches  into  an  intimate  em- 
brace —  so  intimate  that  her  features  were  hidden  in  its  leafy 
bosom  and  her  glistening  ringlets  all  intermingled  with  the 
flowers. 


28o  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

"Give  me  thy  breath,  my  sister,"  exclaimed  Beatrice;  "for 
I  am  faint  with  common  air.  And  give  me  this  flower  of  thine, 
which  I  separate  with  gentlest  fingers  from  the  stem  and  place 
it  close  beside  my  heart." 

With  these  words  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Rappaccini 
plucked  one  of  the  richest  blossoms  of  the  shrub,  and  was  about 
to  fasten  it  in  her  bosom.  But  now,  unless  Giovanni's  draughts 
of  wine  had  bewildered  his  senses,  a  singular  incident  occurred. 
A  small  orange-colored  reptile,  of  the  lizard  or  chameleon 
species,  chanced  to  be  creeping  along  the  path,  just  at  the  feet 
of  Beatrice.  It  appeared  to  Giovanni,  —  but,  at  the  distance 
from  which  he  gazed,  he  could  scarcely  have  seen  anything  so 
minute,  —  it  appeared  to  him,  however,  that  a  drop  or  two  of 
moisture  from  the  broken  stem  of  the  flower  descended  upon 
the  lizard's  head.  For  an  instant  the  reptile  contorted  itself 
violently,  and  then  lay  motionless  in  the  sunshine.  Beatrice 
observed  this  remarkable  phenomenon,  and  crossed  herself, 
sadly,  but  without  surprise;  nor  did  she  therefore  hesitate  to 
arrange  the  fatal  flower  in  her  bosom.  There  it  blushed,  and 
almost  glimmered  with  the  dazzling  effect  of  a  precious  stone, 
adding  to  her  dress  and  aspect  the  one  appropriate  charm  which 
nothing  else  in  the  world  could  have  supplied.  But  Giovanni, 
out  of  the  shadow  of  his  window,  bent  forward  and  shrank 
back,  and  murmured  and  trembled. 

"Am  I  awake?  Have  I  my  senses?"  said  he  to  himself. 
"What  is  this  being?  Beautiful  shall  I  call  her,  or  inexpres- 
sibly terrible?" 

Beatrice  now  strayed  carelessly  through  the  garden,  ap- 
proaching closer  beneath  Giovanni's  window,  so  that  he  was 
compelled  to  thrust  his  head  quite  out  of  its  concealment  in 
order  to  gratify  the  intense  and  painful  curiosity  whidi  she 
excited.  At  this  moment  there  came  a  beautiful  insect  over  the 
garden  wall;  it  had,  perhaps,  wandered  through  the  city,  and 
found  no  flowers  or  verdure  among  those  antique  haunts  of  men 
until  the  heavy  perfumes  of  Dr.  Rappaccini's  shrubs  had  lured 
it  from  afar.  Without  alighting  on  the  flowers,  this  winged 
brightness  seemed  to  be  attracted  by  Beatrice,  and  lingered  in 
the  air  and  fluttered  about  her  head.  Now,  here  it  could  not  be 
but  that  Giovanni  Guasconti's  eyes  deceived  him.  Be  that  as  it 
might,  he  fancied  that,  while  Beatrice  was  gazing  at  the  insect 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  281 

with  childish  delight,  it  grew  faint  and  fell  at  her  feet;  its  bright 
wings  shivered;  it  was  dead  —  from  no  cause  that  he  could 
discern,  unless  it  were  the  atmosphere  of  her  breath.  Again 
Beatrice  crossed  herself  and  sighed  heavily  as  she  bent  over 
the  dead  insect. 

An  impulsive  movement  of  Giovanni  drew  her  eyes  to  the 
window.  •  There  she  beheld  the  beautiful  head  of  the  young  man 
—  rather  a  Grecian  than  an  Italian  head,  with  fair,  regular 
features,  and  a  glistening  of  gold  among  his  ringlets  —  gazing 
down  upon  her  like  a  being  that  hovered  in  mid  air.  Scarcely 
knowing  what  he  did,  Giovanni  threw  down  the  bouquet  which 
he  had  hitherto  held  in  his  hand. 

''Signora,"  said  he,  "there  are  pure  and  healthful  flowers. 
Wear  them  for  the  sake  of  Giovanni  Guasconti." 

"Thanks,  signor,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  her  rich  voice,  that 
came  forth  as  it  were  like  a  gush  of  music,  and  with  a  mirthful 
expression  half  childish  and  half  woman-like.  "I  accept  your 
gift,  and  would  fain  recompense  it  with  this  precious  purple 
flower;  but  if  I  toss  it  into  the  air  it  will  not  reach  you.  So 
Signor  Guasconti  must  even  content  himself  with  my  thanks." 

She  lifted  the  bouquet  from  the  ground,  and  then,  as  if  in- 
wardly ashamed  at  having  stepped  aside  from  her  maidenly 
reserve  to  respond  to  a  stranger's  greeting,  passed  swiftly  home- 
ward through  the  garden.  But  few  as  the  moments  were,  it 
seemed  to  Giovanni,  when  she  was  on  the  point  of  vanishing 
beneath  the  sculptured  portal,  that  his  beautiful  bouquet  was 
already  beginning  to  wither  in  her  grasp.  It  was  an  idle 
thought;  there  could  be  no  possibility  of  distinguishing  a 
faded  flower  from  a  fresh  one  at  so  great  a  distance. 

For  many  days  after  this  incident  the  young  man  avoided 
the  window  that  looked  into  Dr.  Rappaccini's  garden,  as  if 
something'  ugly  and  monstrous  would  have  blasted  his  eyesight 
had  he  been  betrayed  into  a  glance.  He  felt  conscious  of 
having  put  himself,  to  a  certain  extent,  within  the  influence  of 
an  unintelligible  power  by  the  communication  which  he  had 
opened  with  Beatrice.  The  wisest  course  would  have  been,  if 
his  heart  were  in  any  real  danger,  to  quit  his  lodgings  and 
Padua  itself  at  once;  the  next  wiser,  to  have  accustomed  him- 
self, as  far  as  possible,  to  the  familiar  and  daylight  view  of 
Beatrice  —  thus   bringing    her   rigidly   and    systematically 


282  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

within  the  limits  of  ordinary  experience.  Least  of  all,  while 
avoiding  her  sight,  ought  Giovanni  to  have  remained  so  near 
this  extraordinary  being  that  the  proximity  and  possibility 
even  of  intercourse  should  give  a  kind  of  substance  and  reahty 
to  the  wild  vagaries  which  his  imagination  ran  riot  continually 
in  producing.  Guasconti  had  not  a  deep  heart  —  or,  at  all 
events,  its  depths  were  not  sounded  now;  but  he  had  a  quick 
fancy,  and  an  ardent  southern  temperament,  which  rose  every 
instant  to  a  higher  fever  pitch.  Whether  or  no  Beatrice 
possessed  those  terrible  attributes,  that  fatal  breath,  the  affin- 
ity with  those  so  beautiful  and  deadly  flowers  which  were 
indicated  by  what  Giovanni  had  witnessed,  she  had  at  least  in- 
stilled a  fierce  and  subtle  poison  into  his  system.  It  was  not 
love,  although  her  rich  beauty  was  a  madness  to  him;  nor 
horror,  even  while  he  fancied  her  spirit  to  be  imbued  with  the 
same  baneful  essence  that  seemed  to  pervade  her  physical 
frame;  but  a  wild  offspring  of  both  love  and  horror  that  had 
each  parent  in  it,  and  burned  like  one  and  shivered  like  the 
other.  Giovanni  knew  not  what  to  dread;  still  less  did  he  know 
what  to  hope;  yet  hope  and  dread  kept  a  continual  warfare  in 
his  breast,  alternately  vanquishing  one  another  and  starting 
up  afresh  to  renew  the  contest.  Blessed  are  all  simple  emotions, 
be  they  dark  or  bright!  It  is  the  lurid  intermixture  of  the 
two  that  produces  the  illuminating  blaze  of  the  infernal 
regions. 

Sometimes  he  endeavored  to  assuage  the  fever  of  his  spirit 
by  a  rapid  walk  through  the  streets  of  Padua  or  beyond  its 
gates:  his  footsteps  kept  time  with  the  throbbings  of  his  brain, 
so  that  the  walk  was  apt  to  accelerate  itself  to  a  race.  One 
day  he  found  himself  arrested;  his  arm  was  seized  by  a  portly 
personage,  who  had  turned  back  on  recognizing  the  young 
man  and  expended  much  breath  in  overtaking  him. 

"  Signor  Giovanni !  Stay,  my  young  friend ! "  cried  he.  "Have 
you  forgotten  me?  That  might  well  be  the  case  if  I  were  as 
much  altered  as  yourself." 

It  was  Baglioni,  whom  Giovanni  had  avoided  ever  since  their 
first  meeting,  from  a  doubt  that  the  professor's  sagacity  would 
look  too  deeply  into  his  secrets.  Endeavoring  to  recover  him- 
self, he  stared  forth  wildly  from  his  inner  world  into  the  outer 
one  and  spoke  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 


RAPPACCINI'S   DAUGHTER  283 

"Yes;  I  am  Giovanni  Guasconti.  You  are  Professor  Pietro 
Baglioni.  Now  let  me  pass! '^ 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,  Signor  Giovanni  Guasconti,"  said  the 
professor,  smiling,  but  at  the  same  time  scrutinizing  the  youth 
with  an  earnest  glance.  "What!  did  I  grow  up  side  by  side 
with  your  father?  and  shall  his  son  pass  me  like  a  stranger  in 
these  old  streets  of  Padua?  Stand  still,  Signor  Giovanni;  for 
we  must  have  a  word  or  two  before  we  part." 

"Speedily,  then,  most  worshipful  professor,  speedily,"  said 
Giovanni,  with  feverish  impatience.  "Does  not  your  worship 
see  that  I  am  in  haste?" 

Now,  while  he  was  speaking  there  came  a  man  in  black 
along  the  street,  stooping  and  moving  feebly  like  a  person  in 
inferior  health.  His  face  was  all  overspread  with  a  most  sickly 
and  sallow  hue,  but  yet  so  pervaded  with  an  expression  of 
piercing  and  active  intellect  that  an  observer  might  easily 
have  overlooked  the  merely  physical  attributes  and  have  seen 
only  this  wonderful  energy.  As  he  passed,  this  person  ex- 
changed a  cold  and  distant  salutation  with  Baglioni,  but  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  Giovanni  with  an  intentness  that  seemed  to 
bring  out  whatever  was  within  him  worthy  of  notice.  Never- 
theless, there  was  a  peculiar  quietness  in  the  look,  as  if  taking 
merely  a  speculative,  not  a  human,  interest  in  the  young  man. 

"It  is  Dr.  Rappaccini!"  whispered  the  professor  when  the 
stranger  had  passed.  "Has  he  ever  seen  your  face  before?" 

"Not  that  I  know/V answered  Giovanni,  starting  at  the 
name. 

"He/fa5seen  you!  he  must  have  seen  you!"  said  Baglioni, 
hastily.  "For  some  purpose  or  other,  this  man  of  science  is 
making  a  study  of  you.  I  know  that  look  of  his !  It  is  the  same 
that  coldly  illuminates  his  face  as  he  bends  over  a  bird,  a  mouse, 
or  a  butterfly,  which,  in  pursuance  of  some  experiment,  he  has 
killed  by  the  perfume  of  a  flower;  a  look  as  deep  as  Nature 
itself,  but  without  Nature's  warmth  of  love.  Signor  Giovanni, 
I  will  stake  my  life  upon  it,  you  are  the  subject  of  one  of 
Rappaccini's  experiments ! " 

"Will  you  make  a  fool  of  me?"  cried  Giovanni  passionately. 
*^That,  signor  professor,  were  an  untoward  experiment." 

"Patience!  patience!"  replied  the  imperturbable  professor. 
"I  tell  thee,  my  poor  Giovanni,  that  Rappaccini  has  a  scientific 


284  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

interest  in  thee.  Thou  hast  fallen  into  fearful  hands!  And 
the  Signora  Beatrice,  —  what  part  does  she  act  in  this  mys- 
tery?" 

But  Guasconti,  finding  BagHoni^s  pertinacity  intolerable, 
here  broke  away,  and  was  gone  before  the  professor  could  again 
seize  his  arm.  He  looked  after  the  young  man  intently  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  This  must  not  be,"  said  Baglioni  to  himself.  ''  The  youth  is 
the  son  of  my  old  friend,  and  shall  not  come  to  any  harm  from 
which  the  arcana  of  medical  science  can  preserve  him.  Besides, 
it  is  too  insufferable  an  impertinence  in  Rappaccini,  thus  to 
snatch  the  lad  out  of  my  own  hands,  as  I  may  say,  and  make 
use  of  him  for  his  infernal  experiments.  This  daughter  of  his! 
It  shall  be  looked  to.  Perchance,  most  learned  Rappaccini,  I 
may  foil  you  where  you  little  dream  of  it!" 

Meanwhile  Giovanni  had  pursued  a  circuitous  route,  and  at 
length  found  himself  at  the  door  of  his  lodgings.  As  he  crossed 
the  threshold  he  was  met  by  old  Lisabetta,  who  smirked  and 
smiled,  and  was  evidently  desirous  to  attract  his  attention; 
vainly,  however,  as  the  ebullition  of  his  feelings  had  momen- 
tarily subsided  into  a  cold  and  dull  vacuity.  He  turned  his  eyes 
full  upon  the  withered  face  that  was  puckering  itself  into  a  smile, 
but  seemed  to  behold  it  not.  The  old  dame,  therefore,  laid  her 
grasp  upon  his  cloak. 

^'Signor!  signor!"  whispered  she,  still  with  a  smile  over  the 
whole  breadth  of  her  visage,  so  that  it  looked  not  unlike  a 
grotesque  carving  in  wood,  darkened  by  centuries.  ''Listen, 
signor!   There  is  a  private  entrance  into  the  garden!" 

"What  do  you  say?"  exclaimed  Giovanni,  turning  quickly 
about,  as  if  an  inanimate  thing  should  start  into  feverish  life. 
"A  private  entrance  into  Dr.  Rappaccini's  garden?" 

"Hush!  hush!  not  so  loud!"  whispered  Lisabetta,  putting 
her  hand  over  his  mouth.  "Yes;  into  the  worshipful  doctor's 
garden,  where  you  may  see  all  his  fine  shrubbery.  Many  -a, 
young  man  in  Padua  would  give  gold  to  be  admitted  among 
those  flowers." 

Giovanni  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  her  hand. 

"Show  me  the  way,"  said  he. 

A  surmise,  probably  excited  by  his  conversation  with  Baglioni, 
crossed  his  mind,  that  this  interposition  of  old  Lisabetta  might 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  285 

perchance  be  connected  with  the  intrigue,  whatever  were  its 
nature,  in  which  the  professor  seemed  to  suppose  that  Dr. 
Rappaccini  was  involving  him.  But  such  a  suspicion,  though  it 
disturbed  Giovanni,  was  inadequate  to  restrain  him.  The  in- 
stant that  he  was  aware  of  the  possibility  of  approaching 
Beatrice,  it  seemed  an  absolute  necessity  of  his  existence  to  do 
so.  It  mattered  not  whether  she  were  angel  or  demon;  he  was 
irrevocably  within  her  sphere,  and  must  obey  the  law  that 
whirled  him  onward,  in  ever-lessening  circles,  towards  a  result 
which  he  did  not  attempt  to  foreshadow;  and  yet,  strange  to 
say,  there  came  across  him  a  sudden  doubt  whether  this  intense 
interest  on  his  part  were  not  delusory;  whether  it  were  really 
of  so  deep  and  positive  a  nature  as  to  justify  him  in  now  thrust- 
ing himself  into  an  incalculable  position;  whether  it  were  not 
merely  the  fantasy  of  a  young  man's  brain,  only  slightly  or  not 
at  all  connected  with  his  heart. 

He  paused,  hesitated,  turned  half  about,  but  again  went  on. 
His  withered  guide  led  him  along  several  obscure  passages,  and 
finally  undid  a  door,  through  which,  as  it  was  opened,  there 
came  the  sight  and  sound  of  rustling  leaves,  with  the  broken 
sunshine  glimmering  among  them.  Giovanni  stepped  forth, 
and,  forcing  himself  through  the  entanglement  of  a  shrub  that 
wreathed  its  tendrils  over  the  hidden  entrance,  stood  beneath 
his  owTi  window  in  the  open  area  of  Dr.  Rappaccini's  garden. 

How  often  is  it  the  case  that,  when  impossibilities  have  come 
to  pass  and  dreams  have  condensed  their  misty  substance  into 
tangible  realities,  we  find  ourselves  calm,  and  even  coldly  self- 
possessed,  amid  circumstances  which  it  would  have  been  a 
delirium  of  joy  or  agony  to  anticipate!  Fate  delights  to  thwart 
us  thus.  Passion  will  choose  his  own  time  to  rush  upon  the 
scene,  and  lingers  sluggishly  behind  when  an  appropriate 
adjustment  of  events  would  seem  to  summon  his  appearance. 
So  was  it  now  with  Giovanni.  Day  after  day  his  pulses  had 
throbbed  with  feverish  blood  at  the  improbable  idea  of  an 
interview  with  Beatrice,  and  of  standing  with  her,  face  to  face, 
in  this  very  garden,  basking  in  the  Oriental  sunshine  of  her 
beauty,  and  snatching  from  her  full  gaze  the  mystery  which  he 
deemed  the  riddle  of  his  own  existence.  But  now  there  was  a 
singular  and  untimely  equanimity  within  his  breast.  He  threw 
a  glance  around  the  garden  to  discover  if  Beatrice  or  her  father 


286  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

were  present,  and,  perceiving  that  he  was  alone,  began  a  critical 
observation  of  the  plants. 

The  aspect  of  one  and  all  of  them  dissatisfied  him;  their  gor- 
geousness  seemed  fierce,  passionate,  and  even  unnatural.  There 
was  hardly  an  individual  shrub  which  a  wanderer,  straying  by 
himself  through  a  forest,  would  not  have  been  startled  to  find 
growing  wild,  as  if  an  unearthly  face  had  glared  at  him  out  of 
the  thicket.  Several  also  would  have  shocked  a  delicate  in- 
stinct by  an  appearance  of  artificialness  indicating  that  there 
had  been  such  commixture,  and,  as  it  were,  adultery,  of  various 
vegetable  species,  that  the  production  was  no  longer  of  God's 
making,  but  the  monstrous  offspring  of  man's  depraved  fancy, 
glowing  with  only  an  evil  mockery  of  beauty.  They  were  prob- 
ably the  result  of  experiment,  which  in  one  or  two  cases  had 
succeeded  in  mingling  plants  individually  lovely  into  a  com- 
pound possessing  the  questionable  and  ominous  character  that 
distinguished  the  whole  growth  of  the  garden.  In  fine,  Giovanni 
recognized  but  two  or  three  plants  in  the  collection,  and  those 
of  a  kind  that  he  well  knew  to  be  poisonous.  While  busy  with 
these  contemplations  he  heard  the  rustling  of  a  silken  garment, 
and,  turning,  beheld  Beatrice  emerging  from  beneath  the 
sculptured  portal. 

Giovanni  had  not  considered  with  himself  what  should  be  his 
deportment;  whether  he  should  apologize  for  his  intrusion  into 
the  garden,  or  assume  that  he  was  there  with  the  privity  at 
least,  if  not  by  the  desire,  of  Dr.  Rappaccini  or  his  daughter; 
but  Beatrice's  manner  placed  him  at  his  ease,  though  leaving 
him  still  in  doubt  by  what  agency  he  had  gained  admittance. 
She  came  lightly  along  the  path  and  met  him  near  the  broken 
fountain.  There  was  surprise  in  her  face,  but  brightened  by  a 
simple  and  kind  expression  of  pleasure. 

**You  are  a  connoisseur  in  flowers,  signor,"  said  Beatrice, 
with  a  smile,  alluding  to  the  bouquet  which  he  had  flung  her 
from  the  window.  "It  is  no  marvel,  therefore,  if  the  sight  of 
my  father's  rare  collection  has  tempted  you  to  take  a  nearer 
view.  If  he  were  here,  he  could  tell  you  many  strange  and  inter- 
esting facts  as  to  the  nature  and  habits  of  these  shrubs;  for  he 
has  spent  a  lifetime  in  such  studies,  and  this  garden  is  his 
world." 

"And  yourself,  lady,"  observed  Giovanni,  "if  fame  says 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  287 

true,  —  you  likewise  are  deeply  skilled  in  the  virtues  indicated 
by  these  rich  blossoms  and  these  spicy  perfumes.  Would  you 
deign  to  be  my  instructress,  I  should  prove  an  apter  scholar 
than  if  taught  by  Signor  Rappaccini  himself." 

"Are  there  such  idle  rumors?"  asked  Beatrice,  with  the 
music  of  a  pleasant  laugh.  "Do  people  say  that  I  am  skilled  in 
my  father's  science  of  plants?  What  a  jest  is  there !  No ;  though 
I  have  grown  up  among  these  flowers,  I  know  no  more  of  them 
than  their  hues  and  perfume;  and  sometimes  methinks  I  would 
fain  rid  myself  of  even  that  small  knowledge.  There  are  many 
flowers  here,  and  those  not  the  least]  brilliant,  that  shock  and 
offend  me  when  they  meet  my  eye.  But  pray,  signor,  do  not 
believe  these  stories  about  my  science.  Believe  nothing  of  me 
save  what  you  see  with  your  own  eyes." 

"And  must  I  believe  all  that  I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes?  " 
asked  Giovanni,  pointedly,  while  the  recollection  of  former 
scenes  made  him  shrink.  "No,  signora;  you  demand  too  little 
of  me.  Bid  me  believe  nothing  save  what  comes  from  your 
own  lips." 

It  would  appear  that  Beatrice  understood  him.  There  came 
a  deep  flush  to  her  cheek;  but  she  looked  full  into  Giovanni's 
eyes,  and  responded  to  his  gaze  of  uneasy  suspicion  with  a 
queenlike  haughtiness. 

"  I  do  so  bid  you,  signor,"  she  replied.  "  Forget  whatever  you 
may  have  fancied  in  regard  to  me.  If  true  to  the  outward  senses, 
still  it  maybe  false  in  its  essence;  but  the  words  of  Beatrice 
Rappaccini's  lips  are  true  from  the  depths  of  the  heart  out- 
ward. Those  you  may  believe." 

A  fervor  glowed  in  her  whole  aspect  and  beamed  upon 
Giovanni's  consciousness  like  the  light  of  truth  itself;  but  while 
she  spoke  there  was  a  fragrance  in  the  atmosphere  around  her, 
rich  and  delightful,  though  evanescent,  yet  which  the  young 
man,  from  an  indefinable  reluctance,  scarcely  dared  to  draw 
into  his  lungs.  It  might  be  the  odor  of  the  flowers.  Could  it  be 
Beatrice's  breath  which  thus  embalmed  her  words  with  a 
strange  richness,  as  if  by  steeping  them  in  her  heart?  A  faint- 
ness  passed  like  a  shadow  over  Giovanni  and  flitted  away;  he 
seemed  to  gaze  through  the  beautiful  girl's  eyes  into  her  trans- 
parent soul,  and  felt  no  more  doubt  or  fear. 

The  tinge  of  passion  that  had  colored  Beatrice's  manner 


288  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

vanished;  she  became  gay,  and  appeared  to  derive  a  pure  de- 
light from  her  communion  with  the  youth  not  unlike  what  the 
maiden  of  a  lonely  island  might  have  felt  conversing  with  a 
voyager  from  the  civilized  world.  Evidently  her  experience  of 
life  had  been  confined  within  the  limits  of  that  garden.  She 
talked  now  about  matters  as  simple  as  the  daylight  or  summer 
clouds,  and  now  asked  questions  in  reference  to  the  city,  or 
Giovanni's  distant  home,  his  friends,  his  mother,  and  his  sisters 
—  questions  indicating  such  seclusion,  and  such  lack  of  famili- 
arity with  modes  and  forms,  that  Giovanni  responded  as  if  to 
an  infant.  Her  spirit  gushed  out  before  him  like  a  fresh  rill  that 
was  just  catching  its  first  glimpse  of  the  sunlight  and  wondering 
at  the  reflections  of  earth  and  sky  which  were  flung  into  its 
bosom.  There  came  thoughts,  too,  from  a  deep  source,  and 
fantasies  of  a  gemlike  brilliancy,  as  if  diamonds  and  rubies 
sparkled  upward  among  the  bubbles  of  the  fountain.  Ever  and 
anon  there  gleamed  across  the  young  man's  mind  a  sense  of 
wonder  that  he  should  be  walking  side  by  side  with  the  being 
who  had  so  wrought  upon  his  imagination,  whom  he  had  ideal- 
ized in  such  hues  of  terror,  in  whom  he  had  positively  witnessed 
such  manifestations  of  dreadful  attributes,  —  that  he  should 
be  conversing  with  Beatrice  like  a  brother,  and  should  find  her 
so  human  and  so  maidenlike.  But  such  reflections  were  only 
momentary;  the  effect  of  her  character  was  too  real  not  to  make 
itself  familiar  at  once. 

In  this  free  intercourse  they  had  strayed  through  the  garden, 
and  now,  after  many  turns  among  its  avenues,  were  come  to  the 
shattered  fountain,  beside  which  grew  the  magnificent  shrub, 
with  its  treasury  of  glowing  blossoms.  A  fragrance  was  diffused 
from  it  which  Giovanni  recognized  as  identical  with  that  which 
he.  had  attributed  to  Beatrice's  breath,  but  incomparably 
more  powerful.  As  her  eyes  fell  upon  it,  Giovanni  beheld  her 
press  her  hand  to  her  bosom  as  if  her  heart  were  throbbing 
suddenly  and  painfully. 

**For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  murmured  she,  addressing 
the  shrub,  "I  had  forgotten  thee." 

"I  remember,  signora,"  said  Giovanni,  "that  you  once 
promised  to  reward  me  with  one  of  these  living  gems  for  the 
bouquet  which  I  had  the  happy  boldness  to  fling  to  your  feet. 
Permit  me  now  to  pluck  it  as  a  memorial  of  this  interview." 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  289 

He  made  a  step  towards  the  shrub  with  extended  hand;  but 
Beatrice  darted  forward,  uttering  a  shriek  that  went  through 
his  heart  like  a  dagger.  She  caught  his  hand  and  drew  it  back 
with  the  whole  force  of  her  slender  figure.  Giovanni  felt  her 
touch  thrilling  through  his  fibres. 

*' Touch  it  not!'*  exclaimed  she,  in  a  voice  of  agony.  "Not 
for  thy  life!  It  is  fatal!'' 

Then,  hiding  her  face,  she  fled  from  him  and  vanished  be- 
neath the  sculptured  portal.  As  Giovanni  followed  her  with 
his  eyes,  he  beheld  the  emaciated  figure  and  pale  intelligence 
of  Dr.  Rappaccini,  who  had  been  watching  the  scene,  he  knew 
not  how  long,  within  the  shadow  of  the  entrance. 

No  sooner  was  Guasconti  alone  in  his  chamber  than  the 
image  of  Beatrice  came  back  to  his  passionate  musings,  invested 
wdth  all  the  witchery  that  had  been  gathering  around  it  ever 
since  his  first  glimpse  of  her,  and  now  likewise  imbued  with  a 
tender  warmth  of  girlish  womanhood.  She  was  human;  her 
nature  was  endowed  with  all  gentle  and  feminine  qualities; 
she  was  worthiest  to  be  worshipped;  she  was  capable,  surely, 
on  her  part,  of  the  height  and  heroism  of  love.  Those  tokens 
which  he  had  hitherto  considered  as  proofs  of  a  frightful 
peculiarity  in  her  physical  and  moral  system  were  now  either 
forgotten,  or,  by  the  subtle  sophistry  of  passion  transmitted 
into  a  golden  crown  of  enchantment,  rendering  Beatrice  the 
more  admirable  by  so  much  as  she  was  the  more  unique.  What- 
ever had  looked  ugly  was  now  beautiful;  or,  if  incapable  of 
such  a  change,  it  stole  away  and  hid  itself  among  those  shape- 
less half  ideas  which  throng  the  dim  region  beyond  the  dayHght 
of  our  perfect  consciousness.  Thus  did  he  spend  the  night,  nor 
fell  asleep  until  the  dawn  had  begun  to  awake  the  slumbering 
flowers  in  Dr.  Rappaccini's  garden,  whither  Giovanni's  dreams 
doubtless  led  him.  Up  rose  the  sun  in  his  due  season,  and, 
flinging  his  beams  upon  the  young  man's  eyelids,  awoke  him  to 
a  sense  of  pain.  When  thoroughly  aroused,  he  became  sensible 
of  a  burning  and  tingling  agony  in  his  hand  —  in  his  right  hand 
—  the  very  hand  which  Beatrice  had  grasped  in  her  own  when 
he  was  on  the  point  of  plucking  one  of  the  gemlike  flowers. 
On  the  back  of  that  hand  there  was  now  a  purple  print  like  that 
of  four  small  fingers,  and  the  likeness  of  a  slender  thumb  upon 
his  wrist. 


290  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

Oh,  how  stubbornly  does  love,  —  or  even  that  cunning  sem- 
blance of  love  which  flourishes  in  the  imagination,  but  strikes 
no  depth  of  root  into  the  heart,  —  how  stubbornly  does  it  hold 
its  faith  until  the  moment  comes  when  it  is  doomed  to  vanish 
into  thin  mist!  Giovanni  wrapped  a  handkerchief  about  his 
hand  and  wondered  what  evil  thing  had  stung  him,  and  soon 
forgot  his  pain  in  a  reverie  of  Beatrice. 

After  the  first  interview,  a  second  was  in  the  inevitable 
course  of  what  we  call  fate.  A  third;  a  fourth;  and  a  meeting 
with  Beatrice  in  the  garden  was  no  longer  an  incident  in 
Giovanni's  daily  life,  but  the  whole  space  in  which  he  might 
be  said  to  live;  for  the  anticipation  and  memory  of  that  ecstatic 
hour  made  up  the  remainder.  Nor  was  it  otherwise  with  the 
daughter  of  Rappaccini.  She  watched  for  the  youth's  appear- 
ance, and  flew  to  his  side  with  confidence  as  unreserved  as  if 
they  had  been  playmates  from  early  infancy  —  as  if  they  were 
such  playmates  still.  If,  by  any  unwonted  chance,  he  failed  to 
come  at  the  appointed  moment,  she  stood  beneath  the  window 
and  sent  up  the  rich  sweetness  of  her  tones  to  float  around  him 
in  his  chamber  and  echo  and  reverberate  throughout  his  heart: 
"Giovanni!  Giovanni!  Why  tarriest  thou?  Come  down!" 
And  down  he  hastened  into  that  Eden  of  poisonous  flowers. 

But,  with  all  this  intimate  familiarity,  there  was  still  a 
reserve  in  Beatrice's  demeanor,  so  rigidly  and  invariably  sus- 
tained that  the  idea  of  infringing  it  scarcely  occurred  to  his 
imagination.  By  all  appreciable  signs,  they  loved;  they  had 
looked  love  with  eyes  that  conveyed  the  holy  secret  from  the 
depths  of  one  soul  into  the  depths  of  the  other,  as  if  it  were  too 
sacred  to  be  whispered  by  the  way;  they  had  even  spoken  love 
in  those  gushes  of  passion  when  their  spirits  darted  forth  in 
articulated  breath  like  tongues  of  long-hidden  flame;  and  yet 
there  had  been  no  seal  of  lips,  no  clasp  of  hands,  nor  any  slight- 
est caress  such  as  love  claims  and  hallows.  He  had  never 
touched  one  of  the  gleaming  ringlets  of  her  hair;  her  garment 
—  so  marked  was  the  physical  barrier  between  them  —  had 
never  been  waved  against  him  by  a  breeze.  On  the  few  occa- 
sions when  Giovanni  had  seemed  tempted  to  overstep  the  limit, 
Beatrice  grew  so  sad,  so  stern,  and  withal  wore  such  a  look  of 
desolate  separation,  shuddering  at  itself,  that  not  a  spoken 
word  was  requisite  to  repel  him.  At  such  times  he  was  startled 


RAPPACCmi'S  DAUGHTER  291 

at  the  horrible  suspicions  that  rose,  monster-like,  out  of  the 
caverns  of  his  heart  and  stared  him  in  the  face;  his  love  grew 
thin  and  faint  as  the  morning  mist;  his  doubts  alone  had  sub- 
stance. But,  when  Beatrice's  face  brightened  again  after  the 
momentary  shadow,  she  was  transformed  at  once  from  the 
mysterious,  questionable  being  whom  he  had  watched  with  so 
much  awe  and  horror;  she  was  now  the  beautiful  and  unsophis- 
ticated girl  whom  he  felt  that  his  spirit  knew  with  a  certainty 
beyond  all  other  knowledge. 

A  considerable  time  had  now  passed  since  Giovanni's  last 
meeting  with  Baglioni.  One  morning,  however,  he  was  dis- 
agreeably surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  professor,  whom  he  had 
scarcely  thought  of  for  whole  weeks,  and  would  willingly  have 
forgotten  still  longer.  Given  up  as  he  had  long  been  to  a  per- 
vading excitement,  he  could  tolerate  no  companions  except 
upon  condition  of  their  perfect  sympathy  with  his  present 
state  of  feeling.  Such  sympathy  was  not  to  be  expected  from 
Professor  Baglioni. 

The  visitor  chatted  carelessly  for  a  few  moments  about  the 
gossip  of  the  city  and  the  university,  and  then  took  up  another 
topic. 

"I  have  been  reading  an  old  classic  author  lately,"  said  he, 
"and  met  with  a  story  that  strangely  interested  me.  Possibly 
you  may  remember  it.  It  is  of  an  Indian  prince,  who  sent  a 
beautiful  woman  as  a  present  to  Alexander  the  Great.  She 
was  as  lovely  as  the  dawn  and  gorgeous  as  the  sunset;  but  what 
especially  distinguished  her  was  a  certain  rich  perfume  in  her 
breath  —  richer  than  a  garden  of  Persian  roses.  Alexander,  as 
was  natural  to  a  youthful  conqueror,  fell  in  love  at  first  sight 
with  this  magnificent  stranger;  but  a  certain  sage  physician, 
happening  to  be  present,  discovered  a  terrible  secret  in  regard 
to  her." 

"And  what  was  that?"  asked  Giovanni,  turning  his  eyes 
downward  to  avoid  those  of  the  professor. 

"That  this  lovely  woman,"  continued  Baglioni,  with  em- 
phasis, "had  been  nourished  with  poisons  from  her  birth  up- 
ward, until  her  whole  nature  was  so  imbued  with  them  that 
she  herself  had  become  the  deadliest  poison  in  existence. 
Poison  was  her  element  of  life.  With  that  rich  perfume  of 
her  breath  she  blasted  the  very  air.    Her  love  would  have 


292  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

been  poison  —  her  embrace  death.  Is  not  this  a  marvellous 
tale?'' 

"A  childish  fable,"  answered  Giovanni,  nervously  starting 
from  his  chair.  *'  I  marvel  how  your  worship  finds  time  to  read 
such  nonsense  among  your  graver  studies." 

*'By  the  by,"  said  the  professor,  looking  uneasily  about  him, 
"what  singular  fragrance  is  this  in  your  apartment?  Is  it  the 
perfume  of  your  gloves?  It  is  faint,  but  delicious;  and  yet, 
after  all,  by  no  means  agreeable.  Were  I  to  breathe  it  long, 
methinks  it  would  make  me  ill.  It  is  like  the  breath  of  a 
flower;  but  I  see  no  flowers  in  the  chamber." 

"Nor  are  there  any,"  replied  Giovanni,  who  had  turned  pale 
as  the  professor  spoke;  "nor,  I  think,  is  there  any  fragrance 
except  in  your  worship's  imagination.  Odors,  being  a  sort  of 
element  combined  of  the  sensual  and  the  spiritual,  are  apt  to 
deceive  us  in  this  manner.  The  recollection  of  a  perfume,  the 
bare  idea  of  it,  may  easily  be  mistaken  for  a  present  reality." 

"Ay;  but  my  sober  imagination  does  not  often  play  such 
tricks,"  said  Baglioni;  "and,  were  I  to  fancy  any  kind  of  odor, 
it  would  be  that  of  some  vile  apothecary  drug,  wherewith  my 
fingers  are  likely  enough  to  be  imbued.  Our  worshipful  friend 
Rappaccini,  as  I  have  heard,  tinctures  his  medicaments  with 
odors  richer  than  those  of  Araby.  Doubtless,  likewise,  the  fair 
and  learned  Signora  Beatrice  would  minister  to  her  patients 
with  draughts  as  sweet  as  a  maiden's  breath;  but  woe  to  him 
that  sips  them!" 

Giovanni's  face  evinced  many  contending  emotions.  The 
tone  in  which  the  professor  alluded  to  the  pure  and  lovely 
daughter  of  Rappaccini  was  a  torture  to  his  soul;  and  yet  the 
intimation  of  a  view  of  her  character,  opposite  to  his  own,  gave 
instantaneous  distinctness  to  a  thousand  dim  suspicions,  which 
now  grinned  at  him  like  so  many  demons.  But  he  strove  hard 
to  quell  them  and  to  respond  to  Baglioni  with  a  true  lover's 
perfect  faith. 

"Signor  professor,"  said  he,  "you  were  my  father's  friend; 
perchance,  too,  it  is  your  purpose  to  act  a  friendly  part  towards 
his  son.  I  would  fain  feel  nothing  towards  you  save  respect 
and  deference;  but  I  pray  you  to  observe,  signor,  that  there 
is  one  subject  on  which  we  must  not  speak.  You  know  not 
the  Signora  Beatrice.   You   cannot,  therefore,  estimate  the 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  293 

wrong  —  the  blasphemy,  I  may  even  say  —  that  is  offered  to 
her  character  by  a  light  or  injurious  word." 

"Giovanni!  my  poor  Giovanni!"  answered  the  professor, 
with  a  calm  expression  of  pity,  "I  know  this  wretched  girl  far 
better  than  yourself.  You  shall  hear  the  truth  in  respect  to  the 
poisoner  Rappaccini  and  his  poisonous  daughter;  yes,  poison- 
ous as  she  is  beautiful.  Listen ;  for,  even  should  you  do  violence 
to  my  gray  hairs,  it  shall  not  silence  me.  That  old  fable  of  the 
Indian  woman  has  become  a  truth  by  the  deep  and  deadly 
science  of  Rappaccini  and  in  the  person  of  the  lovely  Beatrice." 

Giovanni  groaned  and  hid  his  face. 

"Her  father,"  continued  Baglioni,  "was  not  restrained  by 
natural  affection  from  offering  up  his  child  in  this  horrible  man- 
ner as  the  victim  of  his  insane  zeal  for  science;  for,  let  us  do 
him  justice,  he  is  as  true  a  man  of  science  as  ever  distilled  his 
own  heart  in  an  alembic.  What,  then,  will  be  your  fate?  Be- 
yond a  doubt  you  are  selected  as  the  material  of  some  new 
experiment.  Perhaps  the  result  is  to  be  death ;  perhaps  a  fate 
more  awful  still.  Rappaccini,  with  what  he  calls  the  interest 
of  science  before  his  eyes,  will  hesitate  at  nothing." 

"It  is  a  dream,"  muttered  Giovanni  to  himseff;  "surely  it  is 
a  dream." 

"But,"  resumed  the  professor,  "be  of  good  cheer,  son  of  my 
friend.  It  is  not  yet  too  late  for  the  rescue.  Possibly  we  may 
even  succeed  in  bringing  back  this  miserable  child  within  the 
limits  of  ordinary  nature,  from  which  her  father's  madness  has 
estranged  her.  Behold  this  Httle  silver  vase!  It  was  wrought 
by  the  hands  of  the  renowTied  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  is  well 
worthy  to  be  a  love  gift  to  the  fairest  dame  in  Italy.  But  its 
contents  are  invaluable.  One  httle  sip  of  this  antidote  would 
have  rendered  the  most  virulent  poisons  of  the  Borgias  innocu- 
ous. Doubt  not  that  it  will  be  as  efl&cacious  against  those  of 
Rappaccini.  Bestow  the  vase,  and  the  precious  liquid  within 
it,  on  your  Beatrice,  and  hopefully  await  the  result." 

Baglioni  laid  a  small,  exquisitely  wrought  silver  vial  on  the 
table  and  withdrew,  leaving  what  he  had  said  to  produce  its 
effect  upon  the  young  man's  mind. 

"We  will  thwart  Rappaccini  yet,"  thought  he,  chuckHng  to 
himself,  as  he  descended  the  stairs;  "but,  let  us  confess  the 
truth  of  him,  he  is  a  wonderful  man  —  a  wonderful  man 


294  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

indeed;  a  vile  empiric,  however,  in  his  practice,  and  therefore 
not  to  be  tolerated  by  those  who  respect  the  good  old  rules  of 
the  medical  profession. '^ 

Throughout  Giovanni's  whole  acquaintance  with  Beatrice, 
he  had  occasionally,  as  we  have  said,  been  haunted  by  dark 
surmises  as  to  her  character;  yet  so  thoroughly  had  she  made 
herself  felt  by  him  as  a  simple,  natural,  most  affectionate,  and 
guileless  creature,  that  the  image  now  held  up  by  Professor 
Baglioni  looked  as  strange  and  incredible  as  if  it  were  not  in 
accordance  with  his  own  original  conception.  True,  there  were 
ugly  recollections  connected  with  his  first  glimpses  of  the 
beautiful  girl;  he  could  not  quite  forget  the  bouquet  that  with- 
ered in  her  grasp,  and  the  insect  that  perished  amid  the  sunny 
air,  by  no  ostensible  agency  save  the  fragrance  of  her  breath. 
These  incidents,  however,  dissolving  in  the  pure  light  of  her 
character,  had  no  longer  the  efl&cacy  of  facts,  but  were  acknowl- 
edged as  mistaken  fantasies,  by  whatever  testimony  of  the 
senses  they  might  appear  to  be  substantiated.  There  is  some- 
thing truer  and  more  real  than  what  we  can  see  with  the  eyes 
and  touch  with  the  finger.  On  such  better  evidence  had 
Giovanni  founded  his  confidence  in  Beatrice,  though  rather  by 
the  necessary  force  of  her  high  attributes  than  by  any  deep  and 
generous  faith  on  his  part.  But  now  his  spirit  was  incapable  of 
sustaining  itself  at  the  height  to  which  the  early  enthusiasm  of 
passion  had  exalted  it;  he  fell  down,  grovelling  among  earthly 
doubts,  and  defiled  therewith  the  pure  whiteness  of  Beatrice's 
image.  Not  that  he  gave  her  up;  he  did  but  distrust.  He  re- 
solved to  institute  some  decisive  test  that  should  satisfy  him, 
once  for  all,  whether  there  were  those  dreadful  peculiarities  in 
her  physical  nature  which  could  not  be  supposed  to  exist  with- 
out some  corresponding  monstrosity  of  soul.  His  eyes,  gazing 
down  afar,  might  have  deceived  him  as  to  the  lizard,  the  insect, 
and  the  flowers;  but  if  he  could  witness,  at  the  distance  of  a 
few  paces,  the  sudden  blight  of  one  fresh  and  healthful  flower 
in  Beatrice's  hand,  there  would  be  room  for  no  further  question. 
With  this  idea  he  hastened  to  the  florist's  and  purchased  a 
bouquet  that  was  still  gemmed  with  the  morning  dew-drops. 

It  was  now  the  customary  hour  of  his  daily  interview  with 
Beatrice.  Before  descending  into  the  garden,  Giovanni  failed 
not  to  look  at  his  figure  in  the  mirror,  —  a  vanity  to  be 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  295 

expected  in  a  beautiful  yiaung  man,  yet,  as  displaying  itself 
at  that  troubled  and  feverish  moment,  the  token  of  a  certain 
shallowness  of  feeling  and  insincerity  of  character.  He  did 
gaze,  however,  and  said  to  himself  that  his  features  had  never 
before  possessed  so  rich  a  grace,  nor  his  eyes  such  vivacity, 
nor  his  cheeks  so  warm  a  hue  of  superabundant  life. 

"At  least,"  thought  he,  "her  poison  has  not  yet  insinuated 
itself  into  my  system.  I  am  no  flower  to  perish  in  her  grasp." 

With  that  thought  he  turned  his  eyes  on  the  bouquet,  which 
he  had  never  once  laid  aside  from  his  hand.  A  thrill  of  indefin- 
able horror  shot  through  his  frame  on  perceiving  that  those 
dewy  flowers  were  already  beginning  to  droop;  they  wore  the 
aspect  of  things  that  had  been  fresh  and  lovely  yesterday. 
Giovanni  grew  white  as  marble,  and  stood  motionless  before 
the  mirror,  staring  at  his  own  reflection  there  as  at  the  likeness 
of  something  frightful.  He  remembered  Baglioni's  remark 
about  the  fragrance  that  seemed  to  pervade  the  chamber.  It 
must  have  been  the  poison  in  his  breath !  Then  he  shuddered 
—  shuddered  at  himself.  Recovering  from  his  stupor,  he  began 
to  watch  with  curious  eye  a  spider  that  was  busily  at  work 
hanging  its  web  from  the  antique  cornice  of  the  apartment, 
crossing  and  recrossing  the  artful  system  of  interwoven  lines  — 
as  vigorous  and  active  a  spider  as  ever  dangled  from  an  old 
ceiling.  Giovanni  bent  towards  the  insect,  and  emitted  a  deep, 
long  breath.  The  spider  suddenly  ceased  its  toil;  the  web 
vibrated  with  a  tremor  originating  in  the  body  of  the  small 
artisan.  Again  Giovanni  sent  forth  a  breath,  deeper,  longer, 
and  imbued  with  a  venomous  feeling  out  of  his  heart :  he  knew 
not  whether  he  were  wicked,  or  only  desperate.  The  spider 
made  a  convulsive  gripe  with  his  limbs  and  hung  dead  across 
the  window. 

"Accursed!  accursed!"  muttered  Giovanni,  addressing  him- 
self. "Hast  thou  grown  so  poisonous  that  this  deadly  insect 
perishes  by  thy  breath?" 

At  that  moment  a  rich,  sweet  voice  came  floating  up  from 
the  garden. 

"Giovanni!  Giovanni!  It  is  past  the  hour!  Why  tarriest 
thou  ?   Come  down ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  muttered  Giovanni  again.  "She  is  the  only  being 
whom  my  breath  may  not  slay!  Would  that  it  might!" 


296  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

He  rushed  down,  and  in  an  instant  was  standing  before  the 
bright  and  loving  eyes  of  Beatrice.  A  moment  ago  his  wrath 
and  despair  had  been  so  fierce  that  he  could  have  desired 
nothing  so  much  as  to  wither  her  by  a  glance;  but  with  her 
actual  presence  there  came  influences  which  had  too  real  an 
existence  to  be  at  once  shaken  off:  recollections  of  the  delicate 
and  benign  power  of  her  feminine  nature,  which  had  so  often 
enveloped  him  in  a  religious  calm;  recollections  of  many  a  holy 
and  passionate  outgush  of  her  heart,  when  the  pure  fountain 
had  been  unsealed  from  its  depths  and  made  visible  in  its 
transparency  to  his  mental  eye;  recollections  which,  had 
Giovanni  known  how  to  estimate  them,  would  have  assured 
him  that  all  this  ugly  mystery  was  but  an  earthly  illusion,  and 
that,  whatever  mist  of  evil  might  seem  to  have  gathered  over 
her,  the  real  Beatrice  was  a  heavenly  angel.  Incapable  as  he 
was  of  such  high  faith,  still  her  presence  had  not  utterly  lost  its 
magic.  Giovanni's  rage  was  quelled  into  an  aspect  of  sullen 
insensibility.  Beatrice,  with  a  quick  spiritual  sense,  immedi- 
ately felt  that  there  was  a  gulf  of  blackness  between  them 
which  neither  he  nor  she  could  pass.  They  walked  on  together, 
sad  and  silent,  and  came  thus  to  the  marble  fountain  and  to  its 
pool  of  water  on  the  ground,  in  the  midst  of  which  grew  the 
shrub  that  bore  gem-like  blossoms.  Giovanni  was  affrighted 
at  the  eager  enjoyment  —  the  appetite,  as  it  were  —  with 
which  he  found  himself  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers. 

"Beatrice,"  asked  he,  abruptly,  "whence  came  this  shrub?" 

"My  father  created  it,"  answered  she,  with  simplicity. 

"Created  it!  created  it!"  repeated  Giovanni.  "What  mean 
you,  Beatrice?" 

"He  is  a  man  fearfully  acquainted  with  the  secrets  of 
Nature,"  replied  Beatrice;  "and,  at  the  hour  when  I  first  drew 
breath,  this  plant  sprang  from  the  soil,  the  offspring  of  his 
science,  of  his  intellect,  while  I  was  but  his  earthly  child. 
Approach  it  not!"  continued  she,  observing  with  terror  that 
Giovanni  was  drawing  nearer  to  the  shrub.  "It  has  qualities 
that  you  Httle  dream  of.  But  I,  dearest  Giovanni,  —  I  grew  up 
and  blossomed  with  the  plant  and  was  nourished  with  its 
breath.  It  was  my  sister,  and  I  loved  it  with  a  human  affection; 
for,  alas!  —  hast  thou  not  suspected  it?  —  there  was  an  awful 
doom." 


RAPPACCINI^S   DAUGHTER  297 

Here  Giovanni  frowned  so  darkly  upon  her  that  Beatrice 
paused  and  trembled.  But  her  faith  in  his  tenderness  reassured 
her,  and  made  her  blush  that  she  had  doubted  for  an  instant. 

"There  was  an  awful  doom,"  she  continued,  *Hhe  effect  of 
my  father^s  fatal  love  of  science,  which  estranged  me  from  all 
society  of  my  kind.  Until  Heaven  sent  thee,  dearest  Giovanni, 
oh,  how  lonely  was  thy  poor  Beatrice!" 

"Was  it  a  hard  doom?  "  asked  Giovanni,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
her. 

"Only  of  late  have  I  known  how  hard  it  was,"  answered  she, 
tenderly.  "Oh,  yes;  but  my  heart  was  torpid,  and  therefore 
quiet." 

Giovanni's  rage  broke  forth  from  his  sullen  gloom  like  a 
lightning  flash  out  of  a  dark  cloud. 

"Accursed  one!"  cried  he,  with  venomous  scorn  and  anger. 
"And,  finding  thy  solitude  wearisome,  thou  hast  severed  me 
likewise  from  all  the  warmth  of  life  and  enticed  me  into  thy 
region  of  unspeakable  horror!" 

"Giovanni!"  exclaimed  Beatrice,  turning  her  large  bright 
eyes  upon  his  face.  The  force  of  his  words  had  not  found  its 
way  into  her  mind ;  she  was  merely  thunderstruck. 

"Yes,  poisonous  thing!"  repeated  Giovanni,  beside  himself 
with  passion.  "Thou  hast  done  it!  Thou  hast  blasted  me! 
Thou  has  filled  my  veins  with  poison!  Thou  hast  made  me  as 
hateful,  as  ugly,  as  loathsome  and  deadly  a  creature  as  thyself 
—  a  world's  wonder  of  hideous  monstrosity!  Now,  if  our  breath 
be  happily  as  fatal  to  ourselves  as  to  all  others,  let  us  join  our 
lips  in  one  kiss  of  unutterable  hatred,  and  so  die!" 

"What  has  befallen  me?"  murmured  Beatrice,  with  a  low 
moan  out  of  her  heart.  "Holy  Virgin,  pity  me,  a  poor  heart- 
broken child!" 

"Thou,  — dost  thou  pray?"  cried  Giovanni,  still  with  the 
same  fiendish  scorn.  "Thy  very  prayers,  as  they  come  from 
thy  lips,  taint  the  atmosphere  with  death.  Yes,  yes;  let  us  pray! 
Let  us  to  church  and  dip  our  fingers  in  the  holy  water  at  the 
portal!  They  that  come  after  us  will  perish  as  by  a  pestilence! 
Let  us  sign  crosses  in  the  air !  It  will  be  scattering  curses  abroad 
in  the  likeness  of  holy  symbols!" 

"Giovanni,"  said  Beatrice,  calmly,  for  her  grief  was  beyond 
passion,  "why  dost  thou  join  thyself  with  me  thus  in  those 


298  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

terrible  words?  I,  it  is  true,  am  the  horrible  thing  thou  namest 
me.  But  thou,  —  what  hast  thou  to  do,  save  with  one  other 
shudder  at  my  hideous  misery  to  go  forth  out  of  the  garden 
and  mingle  with  thy  race,  and  forget  that  there  ever  crawled 
on  earth  such  a  monster  as  poor  Beatrice?" 

"Dost  thou  pretend  ignorance?"  asked  Giovanni,  scowling 
upon  her.  "Behold!  this  power  have  I  gained  from  the  pure 
daughter  of  Rappaccini." 

There  was  a  swarm  of  summer  insects  flitting  through  the 
air  in  search  of  the  food  promised  by  the  flower  odors  of  the 
fatal  garden.  They  circled  round  Giovanni's  head,  and  were 
evidently  attracted  towards  him  by  the  same  influence  which 
had  drawn  them  for  an  instant  within  the  sphere  of  several  of 
the  shrubs.  He  sent  forth  a  breath  among  them,  and  smiled 
bitterly  at  Beatrice  as  at  least  a  score  of  the  insects  fell  dead 
upon  the  ground. 

"I  see  it!  I  see  it!"  shrieked  Beatrice.  "It  is  my  father's 
fatal  science!  No,  no,  Giovanni;  it  was  not  I!  Never!  never! 
I  dreamed  only  to  love  thee  and  be  with  thee  a  little  time,  and 
so  to  let  thee  pass  away,  leaving  but  thine  image  in  mine  heart; 
for,  Giovanni,  believe  it,  though  my  body  be  nourished  with 
poison,  my  spirit  is  God's  creature,  and  craves  love  as  its  daily 
food.  But  my  father,  —  he  has  united  us  in  this  fearful  sym- 
pathy. Yes;  spurn  me,  tread  upon  me,  kill  me!  Oh,  what  is 
death  after  such  words  as  thine?  But  it  was  not  I.  Not  for  a 
world  of  bliss  would  I  have  done  it." 

Giovanni's  passion  had  exhausted  itself  in  its  outburst  from 
his  lips.  There  now  came  across  him  a  sense,  mournful,  and  not 
without  tenderness,  of  the  intimate  and  peculiar  relationship 
between  Beatrice  and  himself.  They  stood,  as  it  were,  in  an 
utter  solitude,  which  would  be  made  none  the  less  solitary  by 
the  densest  throng  of  human  life.  Ought  not,  then,  the  desert 
of  humanity  around  them  to  press  this  insulated  pair  closer 
together?  If  they  should  be  cruel  to  one  another,  who  was 
there  to  be  kind  to  them?  Besides,  thought  Giovanni,  might 
there  not  still  be  a  hope  of  his  returning  within  the  limits  of 
ordinary  nature,  and  leading  Beatrice,  the  redeemed  Beatrice, 
by  the  hand?  O,  weak,  and  selfish,  and  unworthy  spirit,  that 
could  dream  of  an  earthly  union  and  earthly  happiness  as  pos- 
sible, after  such  deep  love  had  been  so  bitterly  wronged  as  was 


RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER  299 

Beatrice's  love  by  Giovanni's  blighting  words!  No,  no;  there 
could  be  no  such  hope.  She  must  pass  heavily,  with  that 
broken  heart,  across  the' borders  of  Time  —  she  must  bathe  her 
hurts  in  some  fount  of  paradise,  and  forget  her  grief  in  the  Ught 
of  immortality,  and  tJiere  be  well. 

But  Giovanni  did  not  know  it. 

*'Dear  Beatrice,"  said  he,  approaching  her,  while  she  shrank 
away  as  always  at  his  approach,  but  now  with  a  different  im- 
pulse, **  dearest  Beatrice,  our  fate  is  not  yet  so  desperate. 
Behold!  there  is  a  medicine,  potent,  as  a  wise  physician  has 
assured  me,  and  almost  divine  in  its  efi5cacy.  It  is  composed  of 
ingredients  the  most  opposite  to  those  by  which  thy  awful 
father  has  brought  this  calamity  upon  thee  and  me.  It  is  dis- 
tilled of  blessed  herbs.  Shall  we  not  quaff  it  together,  and  thus 
be  purified  from  evil? '' 

"Give  it  me!"  said  Beatrice,  extending  her  hand  to  receive 
the  little  silver  vial  which  Giovanni  took  from  his  bosom.  She 
added,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis,  "I  will  drink;  but  do  thou 
await  the  result." 

She  put  BagUoni's  antidote  to  her  lips;  and,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, the  figure  of  Rappaccini  emerged  from  the  portal  and 
came  slowly  towards  the  marble  foimtain.  As  he  drew  near, 
the  pale  man  of  science  seemed  to  gaze  with  a  triimiphant  ex- 
pression at  the  beautiful  youth  and  maiden,  as  might  an  artist 
who  should  spend*  his  Hf e  in  achieving  a  picture  or  a  group  of 
statuary  and  finally  be  satisfied  with  his  success.  He  paused; 
his  bent  form  grew  erect  with  conscious  power;  he  spread  out 
his  hands  over  them  in  the  attitude  of  a  father  imploring  a 
blessing  upon  his  children;  but  those  were  the  same  hands  that 
had  thrown  poison  into  the  stream  of  their  lives.  Giovanni 
trembled.  Beatrice  shuddered  nervously,  and  pressed  her 
hand  upon  her  heart. 

*'  My  daughter,"  said  Rappaccini,  "  thou  art  no  longer  lonely 
in  the  world.  Pluck  one  of  those  precious  gems  from  thy  sister 
shrub  and  bid  thy  bridegroom  wear  it  in  his  bosom.  It  will  not 
harm  him  now.  My  science  and  the  sympathy  between  thee 
and  him  have  so  wrought  within  his  system  that  he  now  stands 
apart  from  common  men,  as  thou  dost,  daughter  of  my  pride 
and  triumph,  from  ordinary  women.  Pass  on,  then,  through  the 
world,  most  dear  to  one  another  and  dreadful  to  all  besides!" 


300  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

"My  father,"  said  Beatrice,  feebly,  —  and  still  as  she  spoke 
she  kept  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  —  "wherefore  didst  thou 
inflict  this  miserable  doom  upon  thy  child? '* 

"Miserable!"  exclaimed  Rappaccini.  "What  mean  you, 
foolish  girl?  Dost  thou  deem  it  misery  to  be  endowed  with 
marvellous  gifts  against  which  no  power  nor  strength  could 
avail  an  enemy  —  misery,  to  be  able  to  quell  the  mightiest 
with  a  breath  —  misery,  to  be  as  terrible  as  thou  art  beautiful? 
Wouldst  thou,  then,  have  preferred  the  condition  of  a  weak 
woman,  exposed  to  all  evil  and  capable  of  none?" 

"I  would  fain  have  been  loved,  not  feared,"  murmured 
Beatrice,  sinking  down  upon  the  ground.  "But  now  it  matters 
not.  I  am  going,  father,  where  the  evil  which  thou  hast  striven 
to  mingle  with  my  being  will  pass  away  like  a  dream  —  like  the 
fragrance  of  these  poisonous  flowers,  which  will  no  longer  taint 
my  breath  among  the  flowers  of  Eden.  Farewell,  Giovanni! 
Thy  words  of  hatred  are  like  lead  within  my  heart;  but  they, 
too,  will  fall  away  as  I  ascend.  Oh,  was  there  not,  from  the 
first,  more  poison  in  thy  nature  than  in  mine?" 

To  Beatrice,  —  so  radically  had  her  earthly  part  been 
wrought  upon  by  Rappaccini's  skill,  —  as  poison  had  been  life, 
so  the  powerful  antidote  was  death;  and  thus  the  poor  victim 
of  man's  ingenuity  and  of  thwarted  nature,  and  of  the  fatality 
that  attends  all  such  efforts  of  perverted  wisdom,  perished 
there,  at  the  feet  of  her  father  and  Giovanni.  Just  at  that  mo- 
ment Professor  Pietro  Baglioni  looked  forth  from  the  window, 
and  called  loudly,  in  a  tone  of  triumph  mixed  with  horror,  to 
the  thunderstricken  man  of  science,  — 

"Rappaccini!  Rappaccini!  and  is  this  the  upshot  of  your 
experiment!" 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

NATURE  1 

To  go  into  solitude,  a  man  needs  to  retire  as  much  from  his 
chamber  as  from  society.  I  am  not  solitary  whilst  I  read  and 
write,  though  nobody  is  with  me.  But  if  a  man  would  be  alone, 
let  him  look  at  the  stars.  The  rays  that  come  from  those  heav- 
enly worlds  will  separate  between  him  and  what  he  touches. 
One  might  think  the  atmosphere  was  made  transparent  with 
this  design,  to  give  man,  in  the  heavenly  bodies,  the  perpetual 
presence  of  the  sublime.  Seen  in  the  streets  of  cities,  how  great 
they  are!  If  the  stars  should  appear  one  night  in  a  thousand 
years,  how  would  men  believe  and  adore;  and  preserve  for 
many  generations  the  remembrance  of  the  city  of  God  which 
had  been  shown!  But  every  night  come  out  these  envoys  of 
beauty,  and  light  the  universe  with  their  admonishing  smile. 

The  stars  awaken  a  certain  reverence,  because  though  always 
present,  they  are  inaccessible;  but  all  natural  objects  make  a 
kindred  impression,  when  the  mind  is  open  to  their  influence. 
Nature  never  wears  a  mean  appearance.  Neither  does  the 
wisest  man  extort  her  secret,  and  lose  his  curiosity  by  finding 
out  all  her  perfection.  Nature  never  became  a  toy  to  a  wise 
spirit.  The  flowers,  the  animals,  the  mountains,  reflected  the 
wisdom  of  his  best  hour,  as  much  as  they  had  delighted  the 
simplicity  of  his  childhood. 

When  we  speak  of  nature  in  this  manner,  we  have  a  distinct 
but  most  poetical  sense  in  the  mind.  We  mean  the  integrity  of 
impression  made  by  manifold  natural  objects.    It  is  this  which 

^  Nature,  chapters  i  (without  title)  and  vi  ("Idealism").  When  (in  1834) 
Emerson  came  to  settle  in  Concord,  he  lived,  for  some  time,  with  his  step- 
grandfather,  Dr.  Ezra  Ripley,  in  the  Old  Manse.  Here,  in  the  same  room  in 
which  Hawthorne  wrote  later,  he  worked  on  his  first  book, —  "little  azure-colored 
Nature"  which  was  pubUshed  anonymously  in  September,  1836.  The  opening 
sentences  in  Emerson's  "Introduction"  reveal  clearly  the  purpose  of  the  book: 
"Our  age  is  retrospective.  It  builds  the  sepulchres  of  the  fathers.  It  writes  biog- 
raphies, histories,  and  criticism.  The  foregoing  generations  beheld  God  and  na- 
ture face  to  face;  we,  through  their  eyes.  Why  should  not  we  also  enjoy  an 
original  relation  to  the  universe?  . .  .  The  sun  shines  to-day  also." 


302  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

distinguishes  the  stick  of  timber  of  the  wood-cutter,  from  the 
tree  of  the  poet.  The  charming  landscape  which  I  saw  this 
morning  is  indubitably  made  up  of  some  twenty  or  thirty 
farms.  Miller  owns  this  field,  Locke,  that,  and  Manning  the 
woodland  beyond.  But  none  of  them  owns  the  landscape. 
There  is  a  property  in  the  horizon  which  no  man  has  but  he 
whose  eye  can  integrate  all  the  parts,  that  is,  the  poet.  This  is 
the  best  part  of  these  men's  farms,  yet  to  this  their  warranty- 
deeds  give  no  title. 

To  speak  truly,  few  adult  persons  can  see  nature.  Most  per- 
sons do  not  see  the  sun.  At  least  they  have  a  very  superficial 
seeing.  The  sun  illuminates  only  the  eye  of  the  man,  but  shines 
into  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  child.  The  lover  of  nature  is 
he  whose  inward  and  outward  senses  are  still  truly  adjusted  to 
each  other;  who  has  retained  the  spirit  of  infancy  even  into  the 
era  of  manhood.  His  intercourse  with  heaven  and  earth  be- 
comes part  of  his  daily  food.  In  the  presence  of  nature,  a  wild 
delight  runs  through  the  man,  in  spite  of  real  sorrows.  Nature 
says,  —  he  is  my  creature,  and  maugre  all  his  impertinent 
griefs,  he  shall  be  glad  with  me.  Not  the  sun  or  the  summer 
alone,  but  every  hour  and  season  yields  its  tribute  of  delight; 
for  every  hour  and  change  corresponds  to  and  authorizes  a 
different  state  of  the  mind,  from  breathless  noon  to  grimmest 
midnight.  Nature  is  a  setting  that  fits  equally  well  a  comic  or 
a  mourning  piece.  In  good  health,  the  air  is  a  cordial  of  incredi- 
ble virtue.  Crossing  a  bare  common,  in  snow-puddles,  at  twi- 
light, under  a  clouded  sky,  without  having  in  my  thoughts  any 
occurrence  of  special  good  fortune,  I  have  enjoyed  a  perfect 
exhilaration.  I  am  glad  to  the  brink  of  fear.  In  the  woods,  too, 
a  man  casts  off  his  years,  as  the  snake  his  slough,  and  at  what 
period  soever  of  life,  is  always  a  child.  In  the  woods,  is  perpet- 
ual youth.  Within  these  plantations  of  God,  a  decorum  and 
sanctity  reign,  a  perennial  festival  is  dressed,  and  the  guest 
sees  not  how  he  should  tire  of  them  in  a  thousand  years.  In 
the  woods,  we  return  to  reason  and  faith.  There  I  feel  that 
nothing  can  befall  me  in  life,  —  no  disgrace,  no  calamity 
(leaving  me  my  eyes),  which  nature  cannot  repair.  Standing 
on  the  bare  ground,  —  my  head  bathed  by  the  blithe  air,  and 
uplifted  into  infinite  space,  —  all  mean  egotism  vanishes.  I 
become  a  transparent  eyeball;  I  am  nothing;  I  see  all;  the  cur- 


NATURE  303 

rents  of  the  Universal  Being  circulate  through  me;  I  am  part  or 
particle  of  God.  The  name  of  the  nearest  friend  sounds  then 
foreign  and  accidental:  to  be  brothers,  to  be  acquaintances,  — 
master  or  servant,  is  then  a  trifle  and  a  disturbance. .  I  am  the 
lover  of  uncontained  and  immortal  beauty.  In  the  wilderness, 
I  find  something  more  dear  and  connate  than  in  streets  or  vil- 
lages. In  the  tranquil  landscape,  and  especially  in  the  distant 
line  of  the  horizon,  man  beholds  somewhat  as  beautiful  as  his 
own  nature. 

The  greatest  delight  which  the  fields  and  woods  minister,  is 
the  suggestion  of  an  occult  relation  between  man  and  the  vege- 
table. I  am  not  alone  and  unacknowledged.  They  nod  to  me, 
and  I  to  them.  The  waving  of  the  boughs  in  the  storm  is  new 
to  me,  and  old.  It  takes  me  by  surprise,  and  yet  is  not  unknown. 
Its  effect  is  like  that  of  a  higher  thought  or  a  better  emotion 
coming  over  me,  when  I  deemed  I  was  thinking  justly  or  doing 
right. 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  the  power  to  produce  this  delight  does 
not  reside  in  nature,  but  in  man,  or  in  a  harmony  of  both.  It  is 
necessary  to  use  these  pleasures  with  great  temperance.  For, 
nature  is  not  always  tricked  in  holiday  attire,  but  the  same 
scene  which  yesterday  breathed  perfume  and  glittered  as  for 
the  frolic  of  the  nymphs,  is  overspread  with  melancholy  to-day. 
Nature  always  wears  the  colors  of  the  spirit.  To  a  man  labor- 
ing under  calamity,  the  heat  of  his  own  fire  hath  sadness  in  it. 
Then,  there  is  a  kind  of  contempt  of  the  landscape  felt  by  him 
who  has  just  lost  by  death  a  dear  friend.  The  sky  is  less  grand 
as  it  shuts  down  over  less  worth  in  the  population. 


IDEALISM 


Thus  is  the  unspeakable  but  intelligible  and  practicable 
meaning  of  the  world  conveyed  to  man,  the  immortal  pupil,  in 
every  object  of  sense.  To  this  one  end  of  Discipline,  all  parts 
of  nature  conspire. 

^  Nature,  chapter  vi.  The  uses  of  nature,  according  to  Emerson,  may  be  classi- 
fied under  four  heads:  Commodity,  Beauty,  Language,  and  Discipline.  The  last 
of  these  "includes  the  preceding  uses,  as  parts  of  itself."  "Space,  time,  society, 
labor,  climate,  food,  locomotion,  the  animals,  the  mechanical  forces,  give  us  sin- 
cerest  lessons,  day  by  day,  whose  meaning  is  unlimited.  They  educate  both  the 
Understanding  and  the  Reason."  (Chapter  v,  "Discipline.") 


304  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

A  noble  doubt  perpetually  suggests  itself,  whether  this  end 
be  not  the  Final  Cause  of  the  Universe;  and  whether  nature 
outwardly  exists.  It  is  a  sufficient  account  of  that  Appearance 
we  call  the  World,  that  God  will  teach  a  human  mind,  and  so 
makes  it  the  receiver  of  a  certain  number  of  congruent  sensa- 
tions, which  we  call  sun  and  moon,  man  and  woman,  house  and 
trade.  In  my  utter  impotence  to  test  the  authenticity  of  the 
report  of  my  senses,  to  know  whether  the  impressions  they 
make  on  me  correspond  with  outlying  objects,  what  difference 
does  it  make,  whether  Orion  is  up  there  in  heaven,  or  some  god 
paints  the  image  in  the  firmament  of  the  soul?  The  relations  of 
parts  and  the  end  of  the  whole  remaining  the  same,  what  is 
the  difference,  whether  land  and  sea  interact,  and  worlds  re- 
volve and  intermingle  without  number  or  end,  —  deep  yawn- 
ing under  deep,  and  galaxy  balancing  galaxy,  throughout 
absolute  space,  —  or,  whether,  without  relations  of  time  and 
space,  the  same  appearances  are  inscribed  in  the  constant  faith 
of  man?  Whether  nature  enjoy  a  substantial  existence  without, 
or  is  only  in  the  apocalypse  of  the  mind,  it  is  alike  useful  and 
alike  venerable  to  me.  Be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  ideal  to  me,  so 
long  as  I  cannot  try  the  accuracy  of  my  senses. 

The  frivolous  make  themselves  merry  with  the  Ideal  theory, 
as  if  its  consequences  were  burlesque ;  as  if  it  affected  the  stabil- 
ity of  nature.  It  surely  does  not.  God  never  jests  with  us,  and 
will  not  compromise  the  end  of  nature,  by  permitting  any  in- 
consequence in  its  procession.  Any  distrust  of  the  permanence 
of  laws  would  paralyze  the  faculties  of  man.  Their  permanence 
is  sacredly  respected,  and  his  faith  therein  is  perfect.  The 
wheels  and  springs  of  man  are  all  set  to  the  hypothesis  of  the 
permanence  of  nature.  We  are  not  built  like  a  ship  to  be  tossed, 
but  like  a  house  to  stand.  It  is  a  natural  consequence  of  this 
structure,  that,  so  long  as  the  active  powers  predominate  over 
the  reflective,  we  resist  with  indignation  any  hint  that  nature 
is  more  short-lived  or  mutable  than  spirit.  The  broker,  the 
wheelwright,  the  carpenter,  the  toll-man,  are  much  displeased 
at  the  intimation. 

But  whilst  we  acquiesce  entirely  in  the  permanence  of  nat- 
ural laws,  the  question  of  the  absolute  existence  of  nature  still 
remains  open.  It  is  the  uniform  effect  of  culture  on  the  human 
mind,  not  to  shake  our  faith  in  the  stability  of  particular 


NATURE  305 

phenomena,  as  of  heat,  water,  azote;  but  to  lead  us  to  regard 
nature  as  a  phenomenon,  not  a  substance;  to  attribute  neces- 
sary existence  to  spirit;  to  esteem  nature  as  an  accident  and  an 
effect. 

To  the  senses  and  the  unrenewed  understanding  belongs  a 
sort  of  instinctive  belief  in  the  absolute  existence  of  nature. 
In  their  view,  man  and  nature  are  indissolubly  joined.  Things 
are  ultimates,  and  they  never  look  beyond  their  sphere.  The 
presence  of  Reason  mars  this  faith.  The  first  effort  of  thought 
tends  to  relax  this  despotism  of  the  senses,  which  binds  us  to 
nature  as  if  we  were  a  part  of  it,  and  shows  us  nature  aloof, 
and,  as  it  were,  afloat.  Until  this  higher  agency  intervenes,  the 
animal  eye  sees,  with  wonderful  accuracy,  sharp  outlines  and 
colored  surfaces.  When  the  eye  of  Reason  opens,  to  outline  and 
surface  are  at  once  added  grace  and  expression.  These  proceed 
from  imagination  and  affection,  and  abate  somewhat  of  the 
angular  distinctness  of  objects.  If  the  Reason  be  stimulated  to 
more  earnest  vision,  outlines  and  surfaces  become  transparent, 
and  are  no  longer  seen;  causes  and  spirits  are  seen  through  them. 
The  best  moments  of  life  are  these  delicious  awakenings  of  the 
higher  powers,  and  the  reverential  withdrawing  of  nature  before 
its  God. 

Let  us  proceed  to  indicate  the  effects  of  culture,  i.  Our  first 
institution  in  the  Ideal  philosophy  is  a  hint  from  Nature  her- 
self. 

Nature  is  made  to  conspire  with  spirit  to  emancipate  us. 
Certain  mechanical  changes,  a  small  alteration  in  our  local 
position  apprises  us  of  a  dualism.  We  are  strangely  affected  by 
seeing  the  shore  from  a  moving  ship,  from  a  balloon,  or  through 
the  tints  of  an  unusual  sky.  The  least  change  in  our  point  of 
view  gives  the  whole  world  a  pictorial  air.  A  man  who  seldom 
rides  needs  only  to  get  into  a  coach  and  traverse  his  own  town, 
to  turn  the  street  into  a  puppet-show.  The  men,  the  women, 
—  talking,  running,  bartering,  fighting,  —  the  earnest  me- 
chanic, the  lounger,  the  beggar,  the  boys,  the  dogs,  are  unreal- 
ized at  once,  or  at  least  wholly  detached  from  all  relation  to 
the  observer,  and  seen  as  apparent,  not  substantial  beings. 
WTiat  new  thoughts  are  suggested  by  seeing  a  face  of  country 
quite  familiar,  in  the  rapid  movement  of  the  railroad  car!  Nay, 
the  most  wonted  objects  (make  a  very  slight  change  in  the 


3o6  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  ' 

point  of  vision)  please  us  most.  In  a  camera-obscura,  the 
butcher's  cart  and  the  figure  of  one  of  our  own  family  amuse 
us.  So  a  portrait  of  a  well-known  face  gratifies  us.  Turn  the 
eyes  upside  down,  by  looking  at  the  landscape  through  your 
legs,  and  how  agreeable  is  the  picture,  though  you  have  seen  it 
any  time  these  twenty  years! 

In  these  cases,  by  mechanical  means,  is  suggested  the  differ- 
ence between  the  observer  and  the  spectacle,  between  man  and 
nature.  Hence  arises  a  pleasure  mixed  with  awe;  I  may  say,  a 
low  degree  of  the  sublime  is  felt  from  the  fact,  probably,  that 
man  is  hereby  apprised,  that,  whilst  the  world  is  a  spectacle, 
something  in  himself  is  stable. 

2.  In.  a  higher  manner,  the  poet  communicates  the  same 
pleasure.  By  a  few  strokes  he  delineates,  as  on  air,  the  sun,  the 
mountain,  the  camp,  the  city,  the  hero,  the  maiden,  not  differ- 
ent from  what  we  know  them,  but  only  lifted  from  the  ground 
and  afloat  before  the  eye.  He  unfixes  the  land  and  the  sea, 
makes  them  revolve  around  the  axis  of  his  primary  thought, 
and  disposes  them  anew.  Possessed  himself  by  a  heroic  passion, 
he  uses  matter  as  symbols  of  it.  The  sensual  man  conforms 
thoughts  to  things;  the  poet  conforms  things  to  his  thoughts. 
The  one  esteems  nature  as  rooted  and  fast;  the  other,  as  fluid, 
and  impresses  his  being  thereon.  To  him,  the  refractory  world 
is  ductile  and  flexible;  he  invests  dust  and  stones  with  humanity, 
and  makes  them  the  words  of  the  Reason.  The  imagination 
may  be  defined  to  be,  the  use  which  the  Reason  makes  of  the 
material  world.  Shakespeare  possesses  the  power  of  subordinat- 
ing nature  for  the  purposes  of  expression,  beyond  all  poets.  His 
imperial  muse  tosses  the  creation  like  a  bauble  from  hand  to 
hand,  and  uses  it  to  embody  any  caprice  of  thought  that  is 
uppermost  in  his  mind.  The  remotest  spaces  of  nature  are 
visited,  and  the  farthest  sundered  things  are  brought  together, 
by  a  subtle  spiritual  connection.  We  are  made  aware  that  mag- 
nitude of  material  things  is  relative,  and  all  objects  shrink  and 
expand  to  serve  the  passion  of  the  poet.  Thus,  in  his  sonnets, 
the  lays  of  birds,  the  scents  and  dyes  of  flowers,  he  finds  to  be 
the  shadow  of  his  beloved ;  time,  which  keeps  her  from  him,  is 
his  chest;  the  suspicion  she  has  awakened  is  her  ornament; 

"The  ornament  of  beauty  is  Suspect, 
A  crow  which  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air." 


NATURE  307 

His  passion  is  not  the  fruit  of  chance;  it  swells,  as  he  speaks,  to 
a  city,  or  a  state. 

"No,  it  was  builded  far  from  accident; 
It  suffers  not  in  smiling  pomp,  nor  falls 
Under  the  brow  of  thralling  discontent; 
It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic, 
That  works  on  leases  of  short  numbered  hours, 
But  all  alone  stands  hugely  politic." 

In  the  strength  of  his  constancy,  the  Pyramids  seem  to  him 
recent  and  transitory.  The  freshness  of  youth  and  love  dazzles 
him  with  its  resemblance  to  morning. 

"Take  those  hps  away 
Which  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  —  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  mom." 

The  wild  beauty  of  this  hyperbole,  I  may  say,  in  passing,  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  match  in  literature. 

This  transfiguration  which  all  material  objects  undergo 
through  the  passion  of  the  poet,  —  this  power  which  he  exerts 
to  dwarf  the  great,  to  magnify  the  small,  —  might  be  illustrated 
by  a  thousand  examples  from  his  plays.  I  have  before  me  the 
Tempest,  and  will  cite  only  these  few  lines. 

"Ariel.  The  strong  based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
The  pine  and  cedar." 

Prospero  calls  for  music  to  soothe  the  frantic  Alonzo,  and  his 
companions; 

"A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 
To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains 
Now  useless,  boiled  within  thy  skull." 


Again: 


"The  charm  dissolves  apace. 
And,  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason. 

Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell:  and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores 
That  now  he  foul  and  muddy." 


3o8  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

The  perception  of  real  affinities  between  events  (that  is  to 
say,  of  ideal  affinities,  for  those  only  are  real)  enables  the  poet 
thus  to  make  free  with  the  most  imposing  forms  and  phenomena 
of  the  world,  and  to  assert  the  predominance  of  the  soul. 

3.  Whilst  thus  the  poet  animates  nature  with  his  own 
thoughts,  he  differs  from  the  philosopher  only  herein,  that  the 
one  proposes  Beauty  as  his  main  end;  the  other,  Truth.  But 
the  philosopher,  not  less  than  the  poet,  postpones  the  apparent 
order  and  relations  of  things  to  the  empire  of  thought.  "The 
problem  of  philosophy,"  according  to  Plato,  ''is,  for  all  that 
exists  conditionally,  to  find  a  ground  unconditioned  and  abso- 
lute." It  proceeds  on  the  faith  that  a  law  determines  all 
phenomena,  which  being  known,  the  phenomena  can  be  pre- 
dicted. That  law,  when  in  the  mind,  is  an  idea.  Its  beauty  is 
infinite.  The  true  philosopher  and  the  true  poet  are  one,  and  a 
beauty  which  is  truth,  and  a  truth  which  is  beauty,  is  the  aim  of 
both.  Is  not  the  charm  of  one  of  Plato's  or  Aristotle's  defini- 
tions strictly  like  that  of  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles?  It  is,  in 
both  cases,  that  a  spiritual  Ufe  has  been  imparted  to  nature; 
that  the  solid  seeming  block  of  matter  has  been  pervaded  and 
dissolved  by  a  thought;  that  this  feeble  human  being  has  pene- 
trated the  vast  masses  of  nature  with  an  informing  soul,  and 
recognized  itself  in  their  harmony,  that  is,  seized  their  law.  In 
physics,  when  this  is  attained,  the  memory  disburdens  itself 
of  its  cumbrous  catalogues  of  particulars,  and  carries  centuries 
of  observation  in  a  single  formula. 

Thus  even  in  physics,  the  material  is  degraded  before  the 
spiritual.  The  astronomer,  the  geometer,  rely  on  their  irrefrag- 
able analysis,  and  disdain  the  results  of  observation.  The  sub- 
lime remark  of  Euler  on  his  law  of  arches,  "This  will  be  found 
contrary  to  all  experience,  yet  is  true,"  had  already  transferred 
nature  into  the  mind,  and  left  matter  like  an  outcast  corpse. 

4.  Intellectual  science  has  been  observed  to  beget  invariably 
a  doubt  of  the  existence  of  matter.  Turgot  said,  "He  that  has 
never  doubted  the  existence  of  matter  may  be  assured  he  has 
no  aptitude  for  metaphysical  inquiries."  It  fastens  the  atten- 
tion upon  immortal  necessary  uncreated  natures,  that  is,  upon 
Ideas;  and  in  their  presence,  we  feel  that  the  outward  circum- 
stance is  a  dream  and  a  shade.  Whilst  we  wait  in  this  Olympus 
of  gods,  we  think  of  nature  as  an  appendix  to  the  soul.   We 


NATURE  309 

ascend  into  their  region,  and  know  that  these  are  the  thoughts 
of  the  Supreme  Being.  ''These  are  they  who  were  set  up  from 
everlasting,  from  the  beginning,  or  ever  the  earth  was.  When 
he  prepared  the  heavens,  they  were  there;  when  he  established 
the  clouds  above,  when  he  strengthened  the  fountains  of  the 
deep.  Then  they  were  by  him,  as  one  brought  up  with  him.  Of 
them  took  he  counsel.'* 

Their  influence  is  proportionate.  As  objects  of  science,  they 
are  accessible  to  few  men.  Yet  all  men  are  capable  of  being 
raised  by  piety  or  by  passion  into  their  region.  And  no  man 
touches  these  divine  natiires,  without  becoming,  in  some  degree, 
himself  divine.  Like  a  new  soul,  they  renew  the  body.  We  be- 
come physically  nimble  and  lightsome;  we  tread  on  air;  life  is 
no  longer  irksome,  and  we  think  it  will  never  be  so.  No  man 
fears  age  or  misfortune  or  death,  in  their  serene  company,  for 
he  is  transported  out  of  the  district  of  change.  Whilst  we  be- 
hold unveiled  the  nature  of  Justice  and  Truth,  we  learn  the 
difference  between  the  absolute  and  the  conditional  or  relative. 
We  apprehend  the  absolute.  As  it  were,  for  the  first  time,  we 
exist.  We  become  immortal,  for  we  learn  that  time  and  space 
are  relations  of  matter ;  that,  with  a  perception  of  truth,  or  a 
\drtuous  will,  they  have  no  affinity. 

5.  Finally,  religion  and  ethics  —  which  may  be  fitly  called 
the  practice  of  ideas,  or  the  introduction  of  ideas  into  Hfe  — 
have  an  analogous  effect  with  all  lower  culture,  in  degrading 
nature  and  suggesting  its  dependence  on  spirit.  Ethics  and 
religion  differ  herein;  that  the  one  is  the  system  of  human 
duties  commencing  from  man;  the  other,  from  God.  Religion 
includes  the  personality  of  God;  Ethics  does  not.  They  are  one 
to  our  present  design.  They  both  put  nature  under  foot.  The 
first  and  last  lesson  of  religion  is,  ''The  things  that  are  seen,  are 
temporal;  the  things  that  are  unseen,  are  eternal."  It  puts  an 
affront  upon  nature.  It  does  that  for  the  unschooled,  which 
philosophy  does  for  Berkeley  and  Viasa.  The  uniform  language 
that  may  be  heard  in  the  churches  of  the  most  ignorant  sects  is, 
"  Contemn  the  unsubstantial  shows  of  the  world;  they  are  vani- 
ties, dreams,  shadows,  unrealities;  seek  the  realities  of  religion.'* 
The  devotee  flouts  nature.  Some  theosophists  have  arrived  at  a 
certain  hostility  and  indignation  towards  matter,  as  the  Mani- 
chean  and  Plotinus.  They  distrusted  in  themselves  any  look- 


310  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

ing  back  to  these  flesh-pots  of  Egypt.  ^  Plotinus  was  ashamed  of 
his  body.  In  short,  they  might  all  say  of  matter,  what  Michel 
Angelo  said  of  external  beauty,  "It  is  the  frail  and  weary  weed, 
in  which  God  dresses  the  soul,  which  he  has  called  into  time.'* 

It  appears  that  motion,  poetry,  physical  and  intellectual 
science,  and  religion,  all  tend  to  affect  our  convictions  of  the 
reality  of  the  external  world.  But  I  own  there  is  something 
ungrateful  in  expanding  too  curiously  the  particulars  of  the 
general  proposition,  that  all  culture  tends  to  imbue  us  with 
ideaUsm.  I  have  no  hostiHty  to  nature,  but  a  child's  love  to  it. 
I  expand  and  live  in  the  warm  day  like  corn  and  melons.  Let 
us  speak  her  fair.  I  do  not  wish  to  fling  stones  at  my  beautiful 
mother,  nor  soil  my  gentle  nest.  I  only  wish  to  indicate  the  true 
position  of  nature  in  regard  to  man,  wherein  to  estabhsh  man, 
all  right  education  tends;  as  the  ground  which  to  attain  is  the 
object  of  human  life,  that  is,  of  man's  connection  with  nature. 
Culture  inverts  the  vulgar  views  of  nature,  and  brings  the  mind 
to  call  that  apparent,  which  it  uses  to  call  real,  and  that  real, 
which  it  uses  to  call  visionary.  Children,  it  is  true,  believe  in 
the  external  world.  The  belief  that  it  appears  only,  is  an  after- 
thought, but  with  culture,  this  faith  will  as  surely  arise  on  the 
mind  as  did  the  first. 

The  advantage  of  the  ideal  theory  over  the  popular  faith  is 
this,  that  it  presents  the  world  in  precisely  that  view  which  is 
most  desirable  to  the  mind.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  view  which  Rea- 
son, both  speculative  and  practical,  that  is,  philosophy  and 
virtue,  take.  For,  seen  in  the  light  of  thought,  the  world  always 
is  phenomenal;  and  virtue  subordinates  it  to  the  mind.  Ideal- 
ism sees  the  world  in  God.  It  beholds  the  whole  circle  of  per- 
sons and  things,  of  actions  and  events,  of  country  and  religion, 
not  as  painfully  accumulated,  atom  after  atom,  act  after  act, 
in  an  aged  creeping  Past,  but  as  one  vast  picture,  which  God 
paints  on  the  instant  eternity,  for  the  contemplation  of  the  soul. 
Therefore  the  soul  holds  itself  off  from  a  too  trivial  and  micro- 
scopic study  of  the  universal  tablet.  It  respects  th^  end  too 
much,  to  immerse  itself  in  the  means.  It  sees  something  more 
important  in  Christianity  than  the  scandals  of  ecclesiastical 
history,  or  the  niceties  of  criticism;  and,  very  incurious  con- 
cerning persons  or  miracles,  and  not  at  all  disturbed  by  chasms 
1  See  p.  32,  note. 


;THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  311 

of  historical  evidence,  it  accepts  from  God  the  phenomenon,  as 
it  finds  it,  as  the  pure  and  awful  form  of  religion  in  the  world. 
It  is  not  hot  and  passionate  at  the  appearance  qf  what  it  calls 
its  own  good  or  bad  fortune,  at  the  union  or  opposition  of  other 
persons.  No  man  is  its  enemy.  It  accepts  whatsoever  befalls, 
as  part  of  its  lesson.  It  is  a  watcher  more  than  a  doer,  and  it  is 
a  doer,  only  that  it  may  the  better  ^yatch. 

THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  ^ 

Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen: 

I  GREET  you  on  the  recommencement  of  our  literary  year. 
Our  anniversary  is  one  of  hope,  and,  perhaps,  not  enough  of 
labor.  We  do  not  meet  for  games  of  strength  or  skill,  for  the 
recitation  of  histories,  tragedies,  and  odes,  like  the  ancient 
Greeks ;  for  parliaments  of  love  and  poesy,  like  the  Troubadours ; 
nor  for  the  advancement  of  science,  like  our  contemporaries  in 
the  British  and  European  capitals.^  Thus  far,  our  holiday  has 
been  simply  a  friendly  sign  of  the  survival  of  the  love  of  letters 
amongst  a  people  too  busy  to  give  to  letters  any  more.  As  such, 
it  is  precious  as  the  sign  of  an  indestructible  instinct.  Perhaps 
the  time  is  already  come,  when  it  ought  to  be,  and  will  be,  some- 
thing else;  when  the  sluggard  intellect  of  this  continent  will 
look  from  under  its  iron  lids,  and  fill  the  postponed  expectation 
of  the  world  with  something  better  than  the  exertions  of  me- 
chanical skill.  Our  day  of  dependence,  our  long  apprenticeship 

1  An  oration  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  at  Cambridge, 
August  31,  1837;  now  printed  in  the  volume  entitled  Nature,  Addresses,  and 
Lectures.  "This  grand  oration,"  wrote  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  {Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  p.  88),  "was  our  intellectual  Declaration  of  Independence.  Nothing 
like  it  had  been  heard  in  the  halls  of  Harvard  since  Samuel  Adams  supported 
the  affirmative  of  the  question,  'Whether  it  be  lawful  to  resist  the  chief  magis- 
trate, if  the  commonwealth  cannot  otherwise  be  preserved.'  It  was  easy  to  find 
fault  with  an  expression  here  and  there.  The  dignity,  not  to  say  the  formality, 
of  an  Academic  assembly  was  startled  by  the  realism  that  looked  for  the  infinite 
in  "*  the  meal  in  the  firkin,  the  milk  in  the  pan.'  They  could  understand  the  deep 
thoughts  suggested  by '  the  meanest  flower  that  blows,'  but  these  domestic  illus- 
trations had  a  kind  of  nursery  homeliness  about  them  which  the  grave  professors 
and  sedate  clergymen  were  unused  to  expect  on  so  stately  an  occasion.  But  the 
young  men  went  out  from  it  as  if  a  prophet  had  been  proclaiming  to  them  'Thus 
saith  the  Lord.'  No  listener  ever  forgot  that  address,  and  among  all  the  notable 
utterances  of  the  speaker  it  may  be  questioned  if  one  ever  contained  more  truth 
in  language  more  like  that  of  immediate  inspiration."  See  also  Lowell's  comment 
on  the  occasion,  p.  518  of  the  present  volume. 


312  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

to  the  learning  of  other  lands,  draws  to  a  close.  The  millions, 
that  around  us  are  rushing  into  life,  cannot  always  be  fed  on 
the  sere  remains  of  foreign  harvests.  Events,  actions,  arise, 
that  must  be  sung,  that  will  sing  themselves.  Who  can  doubt, 
that  poetry  will  revive  and  lead  in  a  new  age,  as  the  star  in  the 
constellation  Harp,  which  now  flames  in  our  zenith,  astrono- 
mers announce,  shall  one  day  be  the  pole-star  for  a  thousand 
years? 

In  this  hope,  I  accept  the  topic  which  not  only  usage,  but 
the  nature  of  our  association,  seem  to  prescribe  to  this  day,  — 
the  American  Scholar.  Year  by  year,  we  come  up  hither  to 
read  one  more  chapter  of  his  biography.  Let  us  inquire  what 
light  new  days  and  events  have  thrown  on  his  character,  and 
his  hopes. 

It  is  one  of  those  fables,  which,  out  of  an  unknown  antiquity, 
convey  an  unlooked-for  wisdom,  that  the  gods,  in  the  begin- 
ning, divided  Man  into  men,  that  he  might  be  more  helpful  to 
himself;  just  as  the  hand  was  divided  into  fingers,  the  better  to 
answer  its  end. 

The  old  fable  covers  a  doctrine  ever  new  and  sublime;  that 
there  is  One  Man,  —  present  to  all  particular  men  only  par- 
tially, or  through  one  faculty;  and  that  you  must  take  the  whole 
society  to  find  the  whole  man.  Man  is  not  a  farmer,  or  a  pro- 
fessor, or  an  engineer,  but  he  is  all.  Man  is  priest,  and  scholar, 
and  statesman,  and  producer,  and  soldier.  In  the  divided  or 
social  state,  these  functions  are  parcelled  out  to  individuals, 
each  of  whom  aims  to  do  his  stint  of  the  joint  work,  whilst  each 
other  performs  his.  The  fable  implies,  that  the  individual,  to 
possess  himself,  must  sometimes  return  from  his  own  labor  to 
embrace  all  the  other  laborers.  But  unfortunately,  this  original 
unit,  this  fountain  of  power,  has  been  so  distributed  to  multi- 
tudes, has  been  so  minutely  subdivided  and  peddled  out,  that 
it  is  spilled  into  drops,  and  cannot  be  gathered.  The  state  of 
society  is  one  in  which  the  members  have  suffered  amputation 
from  the  trunk,  and  strut  about  so  many  walking  monsters,  — ■ 
a  good  finger,  a  neck,  a  stomach,  an  elbow,  but  never  a  man. 

Man  is  thus  metamorphosed  into  a  thing,  into  many  things. 
The  planter,  who  is  Man  sent  out  into  the  field  to  gather  food, 
is  seldom  cheered  by  any  idea  of  the  true  dignity  of  his  ministry. 
He  sees  his  bushel  and  his  cart,  and  nothing  beyond,  and  sinks 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  313 

into  the  farmer,  instead  of  Man  on  the  farm.  The  tradesman 
scarcely  ever  gives  an  ideal  worth  to  his  work,  but  is  ridden  by 
the  routine  of  his  craft,  and  the  soul  is  subject  to  dollars.  The 
priest  becomes  a  form;  the  attorney,  a  statute-book;  the  me- 
chanic, a  machine,  the  sailor,  a  rope  of  a  ship. 

In  this  distribution  of  functions,  the  scholar  is  the  delegated 
intellect.  In  the  right  state,  he  is  Man  Thinking.  In  the  degen- 
erate state,  when  the  victim  of  society,  he  tends  to  become  a 
mere  thinker,  or,  still  worse,  the  parrot  of  other  men's  thinking. 

In  this  view  of  him,  as  Man  Thinking,  the  theory  of  his  office 
is  contained.  Him  Nature  solicits  with  all  her  placid,  all  her  mon- 
itory pictures ;  him  the  past  instructs;  him  the  future  invites. 
Is  not,  indeed,  every  man  a  student,  and  do  not  all  things  exist 
for  the  student's  behoof?  And,  finally,  is  not  the  true  scholar 
the  only  true  master?  But  the  old  oracle  said:  *'A11  things  have 
two  handles:  beware  of  the  wrong  one."  In  life,  too  often,  the 
scholar  errs  with  mankind  and  forfeits  his  privilege.  Let  us  see 
him  in  his  school,  and  consider  him  in  reference  to  the  main 
influences  he  receives. 

I.  The  first  in  time  and  the  first  in  importance  of  the  influ- 
ences upon  the  mind  is  that  of  nature.  Every  day,  the  sun ;  and, 
after  sunset,  night  and  her  stars.  Ever  the  winds  blow;  ever 
the  grass  grows.  Every  day,  men  and  women,  conversing,  be- 
holding and  beholden.  The  scholar  is  he  of  all  men  whom  this 
spectacle  most  engages.  He  must  settle  its  value  in  his  mind. 
What  is  nature  to  him?  There  is  never  a  beginning,  there  is 
never  an  end,  to  the  inexplicable  continuity  of  this  web  of  God, 
but  always  circular  power  returning  into  itself.  Therein  it  re- 
sembles his  own  spirit,  whose  beginning,  whose  ending,  he  never 
can  find,  —  so  entire,  so  boundless.  Far,  too,  as  her  splendors 
shine,  system  on  system  shooting  like  rays,  upward,  downward, 
without  centre,  without  circumference,  —  in  the  mass  and  in 
the  particle,  nature  hastens  to  render  account  of  herself  to  the 
mind.  Classification  begins.  To  the  young  mind,  everything  is 
individual,  stands  by  itself.  By  and  by,  it  finds  how  to  join  two 
things,  and  see  in  them  one  nature;  then  three,  then  three 
thousand ;  and  so  tyrannized  over  by  its  own  unifying  instinct, 
it  goes  on  tying  things  together,  diminishing  anomalies,  discov- 
ering roots  running  under  ground,  whereby  contrary  and  remote 


314  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

things  cohere,  and  flower  out  from  one  stem.  It  presently 
learns,  that,  since  the  dawn  of  history,  there  has  been  a  con- 
stant accumulation  and  classifying  of  facts.  But  what  is  classi- 
fication but  the  perceiving  that  these  objects  are  not  chaotic, 
and  are  not  foreign,  but  have  a  law  which  is  also  a  law  of  the 
human  mind?  The  astronomer  discovers  that  geometry,  a  pure 
abstraction  of  the  human  mind,  is  the  measure  of  planetary 
motion.  The  chemist  finds  proportions  and  intelligible  method 
throughout  matter;  and  science  is  nothing  but  the  finding  of 
analogy,  identity  in  the  most  remote  parts.  The  ambitious  soul 
sits  down  before  each  refractory  fact;  one  after  another,  re- 
duces all  strange  constitutions,  all  new  powers,  to  their  class 
and  their  law,  and  goes  on  forever  to  animate  the  last  fibre  of 
organization,  the  outskirts  of  nature,  by  insight. 

Thus  to  him,  to  this  school-boy  under  the  bending  dome  of 
day,  is  suggested,  that  he  and  it  proceed  from  one  root;  one  is 
leaf  and  one  is  flower;  relation,  sympathy,  stirring  in  every  vein. 
And  what  is  that  Root?  Is  not  that  the  soul  of  his  soul?  —  A 
thought  too  bold,  —  a  dream  too  wild.  Yet  when  this  spiritual 
light  shall  have  revealed  the  law  of  more  earthly  natures,  — 
when  he  has  learned  to  worship  the  soul,  and  to  see  that  the 
natural  philosophy  that  now  is,  is  only  the  first  gropings  of  its 
gigantic  hand,  he  shall  look  forward  to  an  ever-expanding 
knowledge  as  to  a  becoming  creator.  He  shall  see  that  nature 
is  the  opposite  of  the  soul,  answering  to  it  part  for  part.  One  is 
seal,  and  one  is  print.  Its  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  his  own  mind. 
Its  laws  are  the  laws  of  his  own  mind.  Nature  then  becomes  to 
him  the  measure  of  his  attainments.  So  much  of  nature  as  he 
is  ignorant  of,  so  much  of  his  own  mind  does  he  not  yet  possess. 
And,  in  fine,  the  ancient  precept,  ^'Know  thyself,"  and  the 
modern  precept,  *' Study  nature,"  become  at  last  one  maxim. 

II.  The  next  great  influence  into  the  spirit  of  the  scholar  is, 
the  mind  of  the  Past,  —  in  whatever  form,  whether  of  litera- 
ture, of  art,  of  institutions,  that  mind  is  inscribed.  Books  are 
the  best  type  of  the  influence  of  the  past,  and  perhaps  we  shall 
get  at  the  truth,  —  learn  the  amount  of  this  influence  more 
conveniently,  —  by  considering  their  value  alone. 

The  theory  of  books  is  noble.  The  scholar  of  the  first  age 
received  into  him  the  world  around;  brooded  thereon;  gave  it 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  315 

the  new  arrangement  of  his  own  mind,  and  uttered  it  again. 
It  came  into  him,  life;  it  went  out  from  him,  truth.  It  came  to 
him,  short-lived  actions",  it  went  out  from  him,  immortal 
thoughts.  It  came  to  him,  business;  it  went  from  him,  poetry. 
It  was  dead  fact;  now,  it  is  quick^  thought.  It  can  stand,  and  it 
can  go.  It  now  endures,  it  now  flies,  it  now  inspires.  Precisely 
in  proportion  to  the  depth  of  mind  from  which  it  issued,  so 
high  does  it  soar,  so  long  does  it  sing. 

Or,  I  might  say,  it  depends  on  how  far  the  process  had  gone, 
of  transmitting  life  into  truth.  In  proportion  to  the  complete- 
ness of  the  distillation,  so  will  the  purity  and  imperishableness 
of  the  product  be.  But  none  is  quite  perfect.  As  no  air-pump 
can  by  any  means  make  a  perfect  vacuum,  so  neither  can  any 
artist  entirely  exclude  the  conventional,  the  local,  the  perish- 
able from  his  book,  or  write  a  book  of  pure  thought,  that  shall 
be  as  efficient,  in  all  respects,  to  a  remote  posterity,  as  to  con- 
temporaries, or  rather  to  the  second  age.  Each  age,  it  is  found, 
must  write  its  own  books;  or,  rather,  each  generation  for  the 
next  succeeding.  The  books  of  an  older  period  will  not  fit  this. 

Yet  hence  arises  a  grave  mischief.  The  sacredness  which 
attaches  to  the  act  of  creation  —  the  act  of  thought  —  is  trans- 
ferred to  the  record.  The  poet  chanting,  was  felt  to  be  a  divine 
man:  henceforth  the  chant  is  divine  also.  The  writer  was  a 
just  and  wise  spirit:  henceforward  it  is  settled,  the  book  is 
perfect;  as  love  of  the  hero  corrupts  into  worship  of  his  statue. 
Instantly,  the  book  becomes  noxious:  the  guide  is  a  tyrant. 
The  sluggish  and  perverted  mind  of  the  multitude,  slow  to 
open  to  the  incursions  of  Reason,  having  once  so  opened, 
having  once  received  this  book,  stands  upon  it,  and  makes  an 
outcry,  if  it  is  disparaged.  Colleges  are  built  on  it.  Books  are 
written  on  it  by  thinkers,  not  by  Man  Thinking;  by  men  of 
talent,  that  is,  who  start  wrong,  who  set  out  from  accepted 
dogmas,  not  from  their  own  sight  of  principles.  Meek  young 
men  grow  up  in  libraries,  believing  it  their  duty  to  accept  the 
views  which  Cicero,  which  Locke,  which  Bacon,  have  given, 
forgetful  that  Cicero,  Locke,  and  Bacon  were  only  yoimg  men 
in  libraries,  when  they  wrote  these  books. 

Hence,  instead  of  Man  Thinking,  we  have  the  book-worm. 
Hence,  the  book-learned  class,  who  value  books  as  such;  not  as 

^  Living. 


3i6  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

related  to  nature  and  the  human  constitution,  but  as  making 
a  sort  of  Third  Estate  ^  with  the  world  and  the  soul.  Hence, 
the  restorers  of  readings,  the  emendators,  the  bibliomaniacs  of 
all  degrees. 

Books  are  the  best  of  things,  well  used;  abused,  among  the 
worst.  What  is  the  right  use?  What  is  the  one  end,  which  all 
means  go  to  effect?  They  are  for  nothing  but  to  inspire.  I  had 
better  never  see  a  book,  than  to  be  warped  by  its  attraction 
clean  out  of  my  own  orbit,  and  made  a  satellite  instead  of  a 
system.  The  one  thing  in  the  world,  of  value,  is  the  active  soul. 
This  every  man  is  entitled  to;  this  every  man  contains  within 
him,  although,  in  almost  all  men,  obstructed,  and  as  yet  un- 
born. The  soul  active  sees  absolute  truth;  and  utters  truth,  or 
creates.  In  this  action  it  is  genius;  not  the  privilege  of  here  and 
there  a  favorite,  but  the  sound  estate  of  every  man.  In  its 
essence,  it  is  progressive.  The  book,  the  college,  the  school  of 
art,  the  institution  of  any  kind,  stop  with  some  past  utterance 
of  genius.  This  is  good,  say  they,  —  let  us  hold  by  this.  They 
pin  me  down.  They  look  backward  and  not  forward.  But 
genius  looks  forward;  the  eyes  of  man  are  set  in  his  forehead, 
not  in  his  hindhead;  man  hopes;  genius  creates.  Whatever 
talents  may  be,  if  the  man  create  not,  the  pure  efflux  of  the 
Deity  is  not  his;  cinders  and  smoke  there  may  be,  but  not  yet 
flame.  There  are  creative  manners,  there  are  creative  actions 
and  creative  words;  manners,  actions,  words,  that  is,  indicative 
of  no  custom  or  authority,  but  springing  spontaneous  from  the 
mind's  own  sense  of  good  and  fair. 

On  the  other  part,  instead  of  being  its  own  seer,  let  it  receive 
from  another  mind  its  truth,  though  it  were  in  torrents  of  light, 
without  periods  of  solitude,  inquest,  and  self-recovery,  and  a 
fatal  disservice  is  done.  Genius  is  always  sufficiently  the  enemy 
of  genius  by  over-influence.  The  literature  of  every  nation  bears 
me  witness.  The  English  dramatic  poets  have  Shakespearized 
now  for  two  hundred  years. 

Undoubtedly  there  is  a  right  way  of  reading,  so  it  be  sternly 
subordinated.    Man  Thinking  must  not  be  subdued  by  his 
instruments.  Books  are  for  the  scholar's  idle  times.  When  he  ^ 
can  read  God  directly,  the  hour  is  too  precious  to  be  wasted  in/ 
other  men's  transcripts  of  their  readings.  But  when  the  inter- 

^  The  three  estates  were  the  nobility,  the  clergy,  and  the  common  people. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  317 

vals  of  darkness  come,  as  come  they  must,  —  when  the  sun  is 
hid,  and  the  stars  withdraw  their  shining,  —  we  repair  to  the 
lamps  which  were  kindled  by  their  ray,  to  guide  our  steps  to 
the  East  again,  where  the  dawn  is.  We  hear,  that  we  may 
speak.  The  Arabian  proverb  says,  ''A  fig-tree,  looking  on  a 
fig-tree,  become th  fruitful.'' 

It  is  remarkable,  the  character  of  the  pleasure  we  derive  from 
the  best  books.  They  impress  us  with  the  conviction,  that  one 
nature  wrote,  and  the  same  reads.  We  read  the  verses  of  one  of 
the  great  English  poets,  of  Chaucer,  of  Marvell,  of  Dryden, 
with  the  most  modern  joy,  —  with  a  pleasure,  I  mean,  which 
is  in  great  part  caused  by  the  abstraction  of  all  time  from  their 
verses.  There  is  some  awe  mixed  with  the  joy  of  our  surprise, 
when  this  poet,  who  lived  in  some  past  world,  two  or  three 
hundred  years  ago,  says  that  which  lies  close  to  my  own  soul, 
that  which  I  also  had  wellnigh  thought  and  said.  But  for  the 
evidence  thence  afforded  to  the  philosophical  doctrine  of  the 
identity  of  all  minds,  we  should  suppose  some  preestablished 
harmony,  some  foresight  of  souls  that  were  to  be,  and  some 
preparation  of  stores  for  their  future  wants,  like  the  fact  ob- 
served in  insects,  who  lay  up  food  before  death  for  the  young 
grub  they  shall  never  see. 

I  would  not  be  hurried  by  any  love  of  system,  by  any  exag- 
geration of  instincts,  to  underrate  the  Book.  We  all  know,  that, 
as  the  human  body  can  be  nourished  on  any  food,  though  it 
were  boiled  grass  and  the  broth  of  shoes,  so  the  human  mind 
can  be  fed  by  any  knowledge.  And  great  and  heroic  men  have 
existed,  who  had  almost  no  other  information  than  by  the 
printed  page.  I  only  would  say,  that  it  needs  a  strong  head  to 
bear  that  diet.  One  must  be  an  inventor  to  read  well.  As  the 
proverb  says,  "He  that  would  bring  home  the  wealth  of  the 
Indies,  must  carry  out  the  wealth  of  the  Indies."  There  is  then 
creative  reading  as  well  as  creative  writing.  When  the  mind  is 
braced  by  labor  and  invention,  the  page  of  whatever  book  we 
read  becomes  luminous  with  manifold  allusion.  Every  sen- 
tence is  doubly  significant,  and  the  sense  of  our  author  is  as 
broad  as  the  world.  We  then  see,  what  is  always  true,  that,  as 
the  seer's  hour  of  vision  is  short  and  rare  among  heavy  days 
and  months,  so  is  its  record,  perchance,  the  least  part  of  his 
volume.  The  discerning  will  read,  in  his  Plato  or  Shakespeare, 


3i8  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

only  that  least  part,  —  only  the  authentic  utterances  of  the 
oracle;  all  the  rest  he  rejects,  were  it  never  so  many  times 
Plato's  and  Shakespeare's. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  portion  of  reading  quite  indispensable 
to  a  wise  man.  History  and  exact  science  he  must  learn  by 
laborious  reading.  Colleges,  in  like  manner,  have  their  indis- 
pensable office,  —  to  teach  elements.  But  they  can  only  highly 
serve  us,  when  they  aim  not  to  drill,  but  to  create;  when  they 
gather  from  far  every  ray  of  various  genius  to  their  hospitable 
halls,  and,  by  the  concentrated  fires,  set  the  hearts  of  their 
youth  on  flame.  Thought  and  knowledge  are  natures  in  which 
apparatus  and  pretension  avail  nothing.  Gowns,  and  pecuniary 
foundations,  though  of  towns  of  gold,  can  never  countervail 
the  least  sentence  or  syllable  of  wit.  Forget  this,  and  our 
American  colleges  will  recede  in  their  public  importance, 
whilst  they  grow  richer  every  year. 

III.  There  goes  in  the  world  a  notion,  that  the  scholar 
should  be  a  recluse,  a  valetudinarian,  —  as  unfit  for  any  handi- 
work or  public  labor,  as  a  penknife  for  an  axe.  The  so-called 
"practical  men"  sneer  at  speculative  men,  as  if,  because  they 
speculate  or  see,  they  could  do  nothing.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  the  clergy  —  who  are  always,  more  universally  than  any 
other  class,  the  scholars  of  their  day  —  are  addressed  as 
women;  that  the  rough,  spontaneous  conversation  of  men  they 
do  not  hear,  but  only  a  mincing  and  diluted  speech.  They  are 
often  virtually  disfranchised;  and,  indeed,  there  are  advocates 
for  their  celibacy.  As  far  as  this  is  true  of  the  studious  classes, 
it  is  not  just  and  wise.  Action  is  with  the  scholar  subordinate, 
but  it  is  essential.  Without  it,  he  is  not  yet  man.  Without  it, 
thought  can  never  ripen  into  truth.  Whilst  the  world  hangs 
before  the  eye  as  a  cloud  of  beauty,  we  cannot  even  see  its 
beauty.  Inaction  is  cowardice,  but  there  can  be  no  scholar 
without  the  heroic  mind.  The  preamble  of  thought,  the  transi- 
tion through  which  it  passes  from  the  unconscious  to  the  con- 
scious, is  action.  Only  so  much  do  I  know,  as  I  have  lived. 
Instantly  we  know  whose  words  are  loaded  with  life,  and  whose 
not. 

The  world  —  this  shadow  of  the  soul,  or  other  me  —  lies  wide 
around.  Its  attractions  are  the  keys  which  unlock  my  thoughts 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  319 

and  make  me  acquainted  with  myself.  I  run  eagerly  into  this 
resounding  tumult.  I  grasp  the  hands  of  those  next  me,  and 
take  my  place  in  the  ring  to  sufifer  and  to  work,  taught  by  an 
instinct,  that  so  shall  the  dumb  abyss  be  vocal  with  speech.  I 
pierce  its  order;  I  dissipate  its  fear;  I  dispose  of  it  within  the 
circuit  of  my  expanding  life.  So  much  only  of  Hfe  as  I  know  by 
experience,  so  much  of  the  wilderness  have  I  vanquished  and 
planted,  or  so  far  have  I  extended  my  being,  my  dominion.  I 
do  not  see  how  any  man  can  afford,  for  the  sake  of  his  nerves 
and  his  nap,  to  spare  any  action  in  which  he  can  partake.  It  is 
pearls  and  rubies  to  his  discourse.  Drudgery,  calamity,  exas- 
peration, want,  are  instructors  in  eloquence  and  wisdom.  The 
true  scholar  grudges  every  opportunity  of  action  past  by,  as  a 
loss  of  power.  It  is  the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  intellect 
moulds  her  splendid  products.  A  strange  process  too,  this,  by 
which  experience  is  converted  into  thought,  as  a  mulberry,  leaf 
is  converted  into  satin.  The  manufacture  goes  forward  at  all 
hours. 

The  actions  and  events  of  our  childhood  and  youth  are  now 
matters  of  calmest  observation.  They  lie  like  fair  pictures  in 
the  air.  Not  so  with  our  recent  actions,  —  with  the  business 
which  we  now  have  in  hand.  On  this  we  are  quite  imable  to 
speculate.  Our  affections  as  yet  circulate  through  it.  We  no 
more  feel  or  know  it,  than  we  feel  the  feet,  or  the  hand,  or  the 
brain  of  our  body.  The  new  deed  is  yet  a  part  of  life,  —  remains 
for  a  time  immersed  in  our  unconscious  life.  In  some  contem- 
plative hour,  it  detaches  itself  from  the  life  like  a  ripe  fruit,  to 
become  a  thought  of  the  mind.  Instantly,  it  is  raised,  trans- 
figured; the  corruptible  has  put  on  incorruption.  Henceforth 
it  is  an  object  of  beauty,  however  base  its  origin  and  neighbor- 
hood. Observe,  too,  the  impossibility  of  antedating  this  act. 
In  its  grub  state,  it  cannot  fly,  it  cannot  shine,  it  is  a  dull  grub. 
But  suddenly,  without  observation,  the  seKsame  thing  unfurls 
beautiful  wings,  and  is  an  angel  of  wisdom.  So  is  there  no  fact, 
no  event,  in  our  private  history,  which  shall  not,  sooner  or 
later,  lose  its  adhesive,  inert  form,  and  astonish  us  by  soaring 
from  our  body  into  the  empyrean.  Cradle  and  infancy,  school 
and  play-ground,  the  fear  of  boys,  and  dogs,  and  ferules,  the 
love  of  Httle  maids  and  berries,  and  many  another  fact  that 
once  filled  the  whole  sky,  are  gone  already;  friend  and  relative, 


320  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

profession  and  party,  town  and  country,  nation  and  world, 
must  also  soar  and  sing. 

Of  course,  he  who  has  put  forth  his  total  strength  in  fit 
actions  has  the  richest  return  of  wisdom.  I  will  not  shut  myself 
out  of  this  globe  of  action,  and  transplant  an  oak  into  a  flower- 
pot, there  to  hunger  and  pine;  nor  trust  the  revenue  of  some 
single  faculty,  and  exhaust  one  vein  of  thought,  much  like  those 
Savoyards,  who,  getting  their  livelihood  by  carving  shepherds, 
shepherdesses,  and  smoking  Dutchmen,  for  all  Europe,  went 
out  one  day  to  the  mountain  to  find  stock,  and  discovered  that 
they  had  whittled  up  the  last  of  their  pine-trees.  Authors  we 
have,  in  numbers,  who  have  written  out  their  vein,  and  who, 
moved  by  a  commendable  prudence,  sail  for  Greece  or  Pales- 
tine, follow  the  trapper  into  the  prairie,  or  ramble  round 
Algiers,  to  replenish  their  merchantable  stock. 

If  it  were  only  for  a  vocabulary,  the  scholar  would  be  covet- 
ous of  action.  Life  is  our  dictionary.  Years  are  well  spent  in 
country  labors;  in  town,  —  in  the  insight  into  trades  and  manu- 
factures; in  frank  intercourse  with  many  men  and  women;  in 
science;  in  art;  to  the  one  end  of  mastering  in  all  their  facts  a 
language  by  which  to  illustrate  and  embody  our  perceptions. 
I  learn  immediately  from  any  speaker  how  much  he  has  already 
lived,  through  the  poverty  or  the  splendor  of  his  speech.  Life 
lies  behind  us  as  the  quarry  from  whence  we  get  tiles  and  cope- 
stones  for  the  masonry  of  to-day.  This  is  the  way  to  learn 
grammar.  Colleges  and  books  only  copy  the  language  which 
the  field  and  the  work-yard  made. 

But  the  final  value  of  action,  like  that  of  books,  and  better 
than  books,  is,  thaTTt  is  a  resource.  That  great  principle  of 
Undulation  in  nature,' IKat  shows  itself  in  the  inspiring  and 
expiring  of  the  breath;  in  desire  and  satiety;  in  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  sea;  in  day  and  night;  in  heat  and  cold;  and  as  yet 
more  deeply  ingrained  in  every  atom  and  every  fluid,  is  known 
to  us  under  the  name  of  Polarity,  —  these  "fits  of  easy  trans- 
mission and  reflection,"  as  Newton  called  them,  are  the  law  of 
nature  because  they  are  the  law  of  spirit. 

The  mind  now  thinks;  now  acts;  and  each  fit  reproduces 
the  other.  When  the  artist  has  exhausted  his  materials,  when 
the  fancy  no  longer  paints,  when  thoughts  are  no  longer  ap- 
prehended, and  books  are  a  weariness,  —  he  has  always  the 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  321 

resource  to  live.  Character  is  higher  than  intellect.  Thinking 
is  the  function.  Living  is  the  functionary.  The  stream  retreats 
to  its  source.  A  great  soul  will  be  strong  to  live,  as  well  as 
strong  to  think.  Does  he  lack  organ  or  medium  to  impart  his 
truths?  He  can  still  fall  back  on  this  elemental  force  of  living 
them.  This  is  a  total  act.  Thinking  is  a  partial  act.  Let  the 
grandeur  of  justice  shine  in  his  affairs.  Let  the  beauty  of  affec- 
tion cheer  his  lowly  roof.  Those  "far  from  fame,"  who  dwell 
and  act  with  him,  will  feel  the  force  of  his  constitution  in  the 
doings  and  passages  of  the  day  better  than  it  can  be  measured 
by  any  public  and  designed  display.  Time  shall  teach  him  that 
the  scholar  loses  no  hour  which  the  man  lives.  Herein  he  un- 
folds the  sacred  germ  of  his  instinct,  screened  from  influence. 
What  is  lost  in  seemliness  is  gained  in  strength.  Not  out  of 
those,  on  whom  systems  of  education  have  exhausted  their 
culture,  comes  the  helpful  giant  to  destroy  the  old  or  to  build 
the  new,  but  out  of  unhandselled  savage  nature,  out  of  terrible 
Druids  and  Berserkirs,  come  at  last  Alfred  and  Shakespeare. 

I  hear  therefore  with  joy  whatever  is  beginning  to  be  said  of 
the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labor  to  every  citizen.  There  is 
virtue  yet  in  the  hoe  and  the  spade,  for  learned  as  well  as  for 
unlearned  hands.  And  labor  is  everywhere  welcome;  always 
we  are  invited  to  work;  only  be  this  limitation  observed,  that  a 
man  shall  not  for  the  sake  of  wider  activity  sacrifice  any  opin- 
ion to  the  popular  judgments  and  modes  of  action. 

I  have  now  spoken  of  the  education  of  the  scholar  by  nature, 
by  books,  and  by  action.  It  remains  to  say  somewhat  of  his 
duties. 

They  are  such  as  become  Man  Thinking.  They  may  all  be 
comprised  in  self -trust.  The  office  of  the  scholar  is  to  cheer,  to 
raise,  and  to  guide  men  by  showing  them  facts  amidst  appear- 
ances. He  pKes  the  slow,  unhonored,  and  unpaid  task  of  ob- 
servation. Flamsteed^  and  Herschel,  in  their  glazed  observa- 
tories, may  catalogue  the  stars  with  the  praise  of  all  men,  and, 
the  results  being  splendid  and  useful,  honor  is  sure.  But  he,  in 
his  private  observatory,  cataloguing  obscure  and  nebulous 
stars  of  the  human  mind,  which  as  yet  no  man  has  thought  of 
as  such,  —  watching  days  and  months,  sometimes,  for  a  few 
*  John  Flamsteed  (1646-1719),  an  English  astronomer. 


322  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

facts;  correcting  still  his  old  records,  —  must  relinquish  dis- 
play and  immediate  fame.  In  the  long  period  of  his  prepara- 
tion, he  must  betray  often  an  ignorance  and  shiftlessness  in 
popular  arts,  incurring  the  disdain  of  the  able  who  shoulder 
him  aside.  Long  he  must  stammer  in  his  speech;  often  forego 
the  living  for  the  dead.  Worse  yet,  he  must  accept  —  how 
often !  —  poverty  and  solitude.  For  the  ease  and  pleasure  of 
treading  the  old  road,  accepting  the  fashions,  the  education, 
the  religion  of  society,  he  takes  the  cross  of  making  his  own, 
and,  of  course,  the  self -accusation,  the  faint  heart,  the  frequent 
uncertainty  and  loss  of  time,  which  are  the  nettles  and  tangling 
vines  in  the  way  of  the  self-relying  and  self -directed ;  and  the 
state  of  virtual  hostiUty  in  which  he  seems  to  stand  to  society, 
and  especially  to  educated  society.  For  all  this  loss  and  scorn, 
what  offset?  He  is  to  find  consolation  in  exercising  the  highest 
functions  of  human  nature.  He  is  one  who  raises  himself  from 
private  considerations,  and  breathes  and  lives  on  public  and 
illustrious  thoughts.  He  is  the  world's  eye.  He  is  the  world's 
heart.  He  is  to  resist  the  vulgar  prosperity  that  retrogrades 
ever  to  barbarism,  by  preserving  and  communicating  heroic 
sentiments,  noble  biographies,  melodious  verse,  and  the  con- 
clusions of  history.  Whatsoever  oracles  the  human  heart,  in 
all  emergencies,  in  all  solemn  hours,  has  uttered  as  its  com- 
mentary on  the  world  of  actions,  —  these  he  shall  receive  and 
impart.  And  whatsoever  new  verdict  Reason  from  her  invio- 
lable seat  pronounces  on  the  passing  men  and  events  of  to- 
day, —  this  he  shall  hear  and  promulgate. 

These  being  his  functions,  it  becomes  him  to  feel  all  confi- 
dence in  himself,  and  to  defer  never  to  the  popular  cry.  He  and 
he  only  knows  the  world.  The  world  of  any  moment  is  the 
merest  appearance.  Some  great  decorum,  some  fetish  of  a 
government,  some  ephemeral  trade,  or  war,  or  man,  is  cried  up 
by  half  mankind  and  cried  down  by  the  other  half,  as  if  all  de- 
pended on  this  particular  up  or  down.  The  odds  are  that  the 
whole  question  is  not  worth  the  poorest  thought  which  the 
scholar  has  lost  in  listening  to  the  controversy.  Let  him  not 
quit  his  belief  that  a  popgun  is  a  popgun,  though  the  ancient 
and  honorable  of  the  earth  afiirm  it  to  be  the  crack  of  doom. 
In  silence,  in  steadiness,  in  severe  abstraction,  let  him  hold  by 
himself;  add  observation  to  observation,  patient  of  neglect, 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  323 

patient  of  reproach;  and  bide  his  own  time,  —  happy  enough, 
if  he  can  satisfy  himself  alone,  that  this  day  he  has  seen  some- 
thing truly.  Success  treads  on  every  right  step.  For  the  in- 
stinct is  sure,  that  prompts  him  to  tell  his  brother  what  he 
thinks.  He  then  learns,  that  in  going  down  into  the  secrets  of 
his  own  mind,  he  has  descended  into  the  secrets  of  all  minds. 
He  learns  that  he  who  has  mastered  any  law  in  his  private 
thoughts  is  master  to  that  extent  of  all  men  whose  language  he 
speaks,  and  of  all  into  whose  language  his  own  can  be  trans- 
lated. The  poet,  in  utter  solitude  remembering  his  spontane- 
ous thoughts  and  recording  them,  is  found  to  have  recorded 
that  which  men  in  crowded  cities  find  true  for  them  also.  The 
orator  distrusts  at  first  the  fitness  of  his  frank  confessions,  — 
his  want  of  knowledge  of  the  persons  he  addresses,  —  until  he 
finds  that  he  is  the  complement  of  his  hearers;  that  they  drink 
his  words  because  he  fulfils  for  them  their  own  nature;  the 
deeper  he  dives  into  his  privatest,  secretest  presentiment,  to 
his  wonder  he  finds,  this  is  the  most  acceptable,  most  public, 
and  universally  true.  The  people  delight  in  it;  the  better  part 
of  every  man  feels,  This  is  my  music;  this  is  myself. 

In  self -trust  all  the  virtues  ar^  comprehended.  Free  should 
the  scholar  be,  —  free  and  brave.  Free  even  to  the  definition 
of  freedom,  "without  any  hindrance  that  does  not  arise  out  of 
his  own  constitution."  Brave;  for  fear  is  a  thing  which  a  scholar 
by  his  very  function  puts  behind  him.  Fear  always  springs 
from  ignorance.  It  is  a  shame  to  him  if  his  tranquillity,  amid 
dangerous  times,  arise  from  the  presumption,  that,  Uke  chil- 
dren and  women,  his  is  a  protected  class ;  or  if  he  seek  a  tempo- 
rary peace  by  the  diversion  of  his  thoughts  from  poKtics  or 
vexed  questions,  hiding  his  head  like  an  ostrich  in  the  flowering 
bushes,  peeping  into  microscopes,  and  turning  rhymes,  as  a 
boy  whistles  to  keep  his  courage  up.  So  is  the  danger  a  danger 
still;  so  is  the  fear  worse.  Manlike  let  him  turn  and  face  it. 
Let  him  look  into  its  eye  and  search  its  nature,  inspect  its 
origin,  —  see  the  whelping  of  this  Hon,  —  which  Hes  no  great 
way  back;  he  will  then  find  in  himself  a  perfect  comprehension 
of  its  nature  and  extent;  he  will  have  made  his  hands  meet  on 
the  other  side,  and  can  henceforth  defy  it,  and  pass  on  superior. 
The  world  is  his,  who  can  see  through  its  pretension.  What 
deafness,  what  stone-blind  custom,  what  overgrown  error  you 


324  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

behold,  is  there  only  by  sufferance,  —  by  your  sufferance.  See 
it  to  be  a  lie,  and  you  have  already  dealt  it  its  mortal  blow. 

Yes,  we  are  the  cowed,  —  we  the  trustless.  It  is  a  mischiev- 
ous notion  that  we  are  come  late  into  nature;  that  the  world 
was  finished  a  long  time  ago.  As  the  world  was  plastic  and  fluid 
in  the  hands  of  God,  so  it  is  ever  to  so  much  of  his  attributes 
as  we  bring  to  it.  To  ignorance  and  sin,  it  is  flint.  They  adapt 
themselves  to  it  as  they  may;  but  in  proportion  as  a  man  has 
anything  in  him  divine,  the  firmament  flows  before  him  and 
takes  his  signet  and  form.  Not  he  is  great  who  can  alter  mat- 
ter, but  he  who  can  alter  my  state  of  mind.  They  are  the  kings 
of  the  world  who  give  the  color  of  their  present  thought  to  all 
nature  and  all  art,  and  persuade  men  by  the  cheerful  serenity 
of  their  carrying  the  matter,  that  this  thing  which  they  do,  is 
the  apple  which  the  ages  have  desired  to  pluck,  now  at  last  ripe, 
and  inviting  nations  to  the  harvest.  The  great  man  makes  the 
great  thing.  Wherever  Macdonald  sits,  there  is  the  head  of 
the  table.  ^  Linnaeus  makes  botany  the  most  alluring  of  studies, 
and  wins  it  from  the  farmer  and  the  herb-woman;  Davy, 
chemistry;  and  Cuvier,  fossils.  The  day  is  always  his,  who 
works  in  it  with  serenity  an4  great  aims.  The  unstable  esti- 
mates of  men  crowd  to  him  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a  truth, 
as  the  heaped  waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow  the  moon. 

For  this  self-trust,  the  reason  is  deeper  than  can  be  fath- 
omed, —  darker  than  can  be  enlightened.  I  might  not  carry 
with  me  the  feeling  of  my  audience  in  stating  my  own  belief. 
But  I  have  already  shown  the  ground  of  my  hope,  in  adverting 
to  the  doctrine  that  man  is  one.  I  believe  man  has  been 
wronged ;  he  has  wronged  himself.  He  has  almost  lost  the  light, 
that  can  lead  him  back  to  his  prerogatives.  Men  are  become  of 
no  account.  Men  in  history,  men  in  the  world  of  to-day,  are 
bugs,  are  spawn,  and  are  called  "the  mass"  and  "the  herd." 
In  a  century,  in  a  millennium,  one  or  two  men ;  that  is  to  say,  — 
one  or  two  approximations  to  the  right  state  of  every  man.  All 
the  rest  behold  in  the  hero  or  the  poet  their  own  green  and  crude 
being,  —  ripened;  yes,  and  are  content  to  be  less,  so  that  may 
attain  to  its  full  stature.  What  a  testimony,  —  full  of  grandeur, 
full  of  pity,  is  borne  to  the  demands  of  his  own  nature,  by  the 
poor  clansman,  the  poor  partisan,  who  rejoices  in  the  glory  of 
^  A  Scotch  version  of  a  notion  familiar  to  readers  of  Don  Quixote, 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  325 

his  chief.  The  poor  and  the  low  J&nd  some  amends  to  their  im- 
mense moral  capacity,  for  their  acquiescence  in  a  political  and 
social  inferiority.  They  are  content  to  be  brushed  like  flies  from 
the  path  of  a  great  person,  so  that  justice  shall  be  done  by  him  to 
that  common  nature  which  it  is  the  dearest  desire  of  all  to  see 
enlarged  and  glorified.  They  sun  themselves  in  the  great  man's 
light,  and  feel  it  to  be  their  own  element.  They  cast  the  dig- 
nity of  man  from  their  down-trod  selves  upon  the  shoulders  of 
a  hero,  and  will  perish  to  add  one  drop  of  blood  to  make  that 
great  heart  beat,  those  giant  sinews  combat  and  conquer.  He 
lives  for  us,  and  we  live  in  him. 

Men  such  as  they  are,  very  naturally  seek  money  or  power; 
and  power  because  it  is  as  good  as  money,  —  the  "spoils,''  so 
called,  "of  office."  And  why  not?  for  they  aspire  to  the  highest, 
and  this,  in  their  sleep-walking,  they  dream  is  highest.  Wake 
them,  and  they  shall  quit  the  false  good,  and  lead  to  the  true, 
and  leave  governments  to  clerks  and  desks.  This  revolution  is 
to  be  wrought  by  the  gradual  domestication  of  the  idea  of  Cul- 
ture. The  main  enterprise  of  the  world  for  splendor,  for  ex- 
tent, is  the  upbuilding  of  a  man.  Here  are  the  materials  strown 
along  the  ground.  The  private  life  of  one  man  shall  be  a  more 
illustrious  monarchy,  —  more  formidable  to  its  enemy,  more 
sweet  and  serene  in  its  influence  to  its  friend,  than  any  kingdom 
in  history.  For  a  man,  rightly  viewed,  comprehendeth  the 
particular  natures  of  all  men.  Each  philosopher,  each  bard, 
each  actor,  has  only  done  for  me,  as  by  a  delegate,  what  one  day 
I  can  do  for  myself.  The  books  which  once  we  valued  more 
than  the  apple  of  the  eye,  we  have  quite  exhausted.  What  is 
that  but  saying,  that  we  have  come  up  with  the  point  of  view 
which  the  universal  mind  took  through  the  eyes  of  one  scribe; 
we  have  been  that  man,  and  have  passed  on.  First,  one;  then, 
another;  we  drain  all  cisterns,  and,  waxing  greater  by  all  these 
suppHes,  we  crave  a  better  and  more  abundant  food.  The  man 
has  never  lived  that  can  feed  us  ever.  The  human  mind  cannot 
be  enshrined  in  a  person,  who  shall  set  a  barrier  on  any  one  side 
to  this  unbounded,  unboundable  empire.  It  is  one  central  fire, 
which,  flaming  now  out  of  the  lips  of  Etna,  Hghtens  the  capes 
of  Sicily;  and,  now  out  of  the  throat  of  Vesuvius,  illuminates 
the  towers  and  vineyards  of  Naples.  It  is  one  light  which  beams 
out  of  a  thousand  stars.  It  is  one  soul  which  animates  all  men. 


326  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

But  I  have  dwelt  perhaps  tediously  upon  this  abstraction  of 
the  Scholar.  I  ought  not  to  delay  longer  to  add  what  I  have  to 
say,  of  nearer  reference  to  the  time  and  to  this  country. 

Historically,  there  is  thought  to  be  a  difference  in  the  ideas 
which  predominate  over  successive  epochs,  and  there  are  data 
for  marking  the  genius  of  the  Classic,  of  the  Romantic,  and 
now  of  the  Reflective  or  Philosophical  age.  With  the  views  I 
have  intimated  of  the  oneness  or  the  identity  of  the  mind 
through  all  individuals,  I  do  not  much  dwell  on  these  differ- 
ences. In  fact,  I  believe  each  individual  passes  through  all 
three.  The  boy  is  a  Greek;  the  youth,  romantic;  the  adult,  re- 
flective. I  deny  not,  however,  that  a  revolution  in  the  leading 
idea  may  be  distinctly  enough  traced. 

Our  age  is  bewailed  as  the  age  of  Introversion.  Must  that 
needs  be  evil?  We,  it  seems,  are  critical;  we  are  embarrassed 
with  second  thoughts;  we  cannot  enjoy  anything  for  hankering 
to  know  whereof  the  pleasure  consists;  we  are  lined  with  eyes; 
we  see  with  our  feet;  the  time  is  infected  with  Hamlet's  imhap- 
piness,  — 

"Sicklied  o^er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

Is  it  so  bad  then?  Sight  is  the  last  thing  to  be  pitied.  Would 
we  be  bUnd?  Do  we  fear  lest  we  should  outsee  nature  and  God, 
and  drink  truth  dry?  I  look  upon  the  discontent  of  the  literary 
class,  as  a  mere  announcement  of  the  fact,  that  they  find  them- 
selves not  in  the  state  of  mind  of  their  fathers,  and  regret  the 
coming  state  as  untried;  as  a  boy  dreads  the  water  before  he 
has  learned  that  he  can  swim.  If  there  is  any  period  one  would 
desire  to  be  bom  in,  —  is  it  not  the  age  of  Revolution;  when 
the  old  and  the  new  stand  side  by  side,  and  admit  of  being  com- 
pared; when  the  energies  of  all  men  are  searched  by  fear  and  by 
hope;  when  the  historic  glories  of  the  old  can  be  compensated 
by  the  rich  possibilities  of  the  new  era?  This  time,  like  all 
times,  is  a  very  good  one,  if  we  but  know  what  to  do  with  it. 

I  read  with  joy  some  of  the  auspicious  signs  of  the  coming 
days,  as  they  glimmer  already  through  poetry  and  art,  through 
philosophy  and  science,  through  church  and  state. 

One  of  these  signs  is  the  fact,  that  the  same  movement  which 
effected  the  elevation  of  what  was  called  the  lowest  class  in  the 
state  assumed  in  literature  a  very  marked  and  as  benign  an 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR  327 

aspect.  Instead  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful;  the  near,  the  low, 
the  common,  was  explored  and  poetized.  That,  which  had  been 
neghgently  trodden  under  foot  by  those  who  were  harnessing 
and  provisioning  themselves  for  long  journeys  into  far  coun- 
tries, is  suddenly  found  to  be  richer  than  all  foreign  parts.  The 
literature  of  the  poor,  the  feelings  of  the  child,  the  philosophy  of 
the  street,  the  meaning  of  household  Ufe,  are  the  topics  of  the 
time.  It  is  a  great  stride.  It  is  a  sign  —  is  it  not?  —  of  new  vigor, 
when  the  extremities  are  made  active,  when  currents  of  warm  life 
run  into  the  hands  and  the  feet.  I  ask  not  for  the  great,  the 
remote,  the  romantic;  what  is  doing  in  Italy  or  Arabia;  what  is 
Greek  art,  or  Provencal  minstrelsy;  I  embrace  the  common, 
I  explore  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  familiar,  the  low.  Give  me 
insight  into  to-day,  and  you  may  have  the  antique  and  future 
worlds.  What  would  we  really  know  the  meaning  of?  The  meal 
in  the  firkin;  the  milk  in  the  pan;  the  ballad  in  the  street;  the 
news  of  the  boat;  the  glance  of  the  eye;  the  form  and  the  gait  of 
the  body;  —  show  me  the  ultimate  reason  of  these  matters; 
show  me  the  sublime  presence  of  the  highest  spiritual  cause 
lurking,  as  always  it  does  lurk,  in  these  suburbs  and  extremities 
of  nature;  let  me  see  every  trifle  bristling  with  the  polarity  that 
ranges  it  instantly  on  an  eternal  law;  aad  the  shop,  the  plough, 
and  the  ledger,  referred  to  the  like  cause  by  which  light  undu- 
lates and  poets  sing;  and  the  world  lies  no  longer  a  dull  miscel- 
lany and  lumber-room,  but  has  form  and  order;  there  is  no 
trifle;  there  is  no  puzzle;  but  one  design  unites  and  animates 
the  farthest  pinnacle  and  the  lowest  trench. 

This  idea  has  inspired  the  genius  of  Goldsmith,  Bums,  Cow- 
per,  and,  in  a  newer  time,  of  Goethe,  Wordsworth,  and  Carlyle. 
This  idea  they  have  differently  followed  and  with  various  suc- 
cess. In  contrast  with  their  writing,  the  style  of  Pope,  of  John- 
son, of  Gibbon,  looks  cold  and  pedantic.  This  writing  is  blood- 
warm.  Man  is  surprised  to  find  that  things  near  are  not  less 
beautiful  and  wondrous  than  things  remote.  The  near  explains 
the  far.  The  drop  is  a  small  ocean.  A  man  is  related  to  all 
nature.  This  perception  of  the  worth  of  the  vulgar  is  fruitful  in 
discoveries.  Goethe,  in  this  very  thing  the  most  modern  of  the 
moderns,  has  shown  us,  as  none  ever  did,  the  genius  of  the 
ancients. 

There  is  one  man  of  genius,  who  has  done  much  for  this 


328  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

philosophy  of  life,  whose  literary  value  has  never  yet  been 
rightly  estimated ;  —  I  mean  Emanuel  Swedenborg.  The  most 
imaginative  of  men,  yet  writing  with  the  precision  of  a  mathe- 
matician, he  endeavored  to  ingraft  a  purely  philosophical 
Ethics  on  the  popular  Christianity  of  his  time.  Such  an  at- 
tempt, of  course,  must  have  difficulty,  which  no  genius  could 
surmount.  But  he  saw  and  showed  the  connection  between 
nature  and  the  affections  of  the  soul.  He  pierced  the  emblem- 
atic or  spiritual  character  of  the  visible,  audible,  tangible 
world.  Especially  did  his  shade-loving  muse  hover  over  and 
interpret  the  lower  parts  of  nature;  he  showed  the  mysterious 
bond  that  allies  moral  evil  to  the  foul  material  forms,  and  has 
given  in  epical  parables  a  theory  of  insanity,  of  beasts,  of  un- 
clean and  fearful  things. 

Another  sign  of  our  times,  also  marked  by  an  analogous 
political  movement,  is  the  new  importance  given  to  the  single 
person.  Everything  that  tends  to  insulate  the  individual  —  to 
surround  him  with  barriers  of  natural  respect,  so  that  each  man 
shall  feel  the  world  as  his,  and  man  shall  treat  with  man  as  a 
sovereign  state  with  a  sovereign  state  —  tends  to  true  union  as 
well  as  greatness.  "I  learned,"  said  the  melancholy  Pestalozzi, 
"that  no  man  in  God's  wide  earth  is  either  willing  or  able  to 
help  any  other  man."  Help  must  come  from  the  bosom  alone. 
The  scholar  is  that  man  who  must  take  up  into  himself  all  the 
ability  of  the  time,  all  the  contributions  of  the  past,  all  the 
hopes  of  the  future.  He  must  be  an  university  of  knowledges. 
If  there  be  one  lesson  more  than  another,  which  should  pierce 
his  ear,  it  is:  The  world  is  nothing,  the  man  is  all;  in  yourself  is 
the  law  of  all  nature,  and  you  know  not  yet  how  a  globule  of 
sap  ascends;  in  yourself  slumbers  the  whole  of  Reason;  it  is  for 
you  to  know  all,  it  is  for  you  to  dare  all.  Mr.  President  and 
Gentlemen,  this  confidence  in  the  unsearched  might  of  man 
belongs,  by  all  motives,  by  all  prophecy,  by  all  preparation,  to 
the  American  Scholar.  We  have  listened  too  long  to  the  courtly 
muses  of  Europe.  The  spirit  of  the  American  freeman  is  already 
suspected  to  be  timid,  imitative,  tame.  Public  and  private 
avarice  make  the  air  we  breathe  thick  and  fat.  The  scholar  is 
decent,  indolent,  complaisant.  See  already  the  tragic  conse- 
quence. The  mind  of  this  country,  taught  to  aim  at  low  ob- 
jects, eats  upon  itself.  There  is  no  work  for  any  but  the  deco- 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  329 

rous  and  the  complaisant.  Young  men  of  the  fairest  promise, 
who  begin  Uf  e  upon  our  shores,  inflated  by  the  mountain  winds, 
shined  upon  by  all  the  stars  of  God,  find  the  earth  below  not 
in  unison  with  these,  —  but  are  hindered  from  action  by  the 
disgust  which  the  principles  on  which  business  is  managed 
inspire,  and  turn  drudges,  or  die  of  disgust, — some  of  them  sui- 
cides. WTiat  is  the  remedy?  They  did  not  yet  see,  and  thou- 
sands of  young  men  as  hopeful  now  crowding  to  the  barriers  of 
the  career,  do  not  yet  see,  that  if  the  single  man  plant  himself 
indomitably  on  his  instincts,  and  there  abide,  the  huge  world 
wdll  come  round  to  him.  Patience,  —  patience;  —  with  the 
shades  of  all  the  good  and  great  for  company;  and  for  solace, 
the  perspective  of  your  own  infinite  Ufe;  and  for  work,  the 
study  and  the  communication  of  principles,  the  making  those 
instincts  prevalent,  the  conversion  of  the  world.  Is  it  not  the 
chief  disgrace  in  the  world,  not  to  be  an  unit;  —  not  to  be 
reckoned  one  character;  —  not  to  3deld  that  peculiar  fruit 
which  each  man  was  created  to  bear,  but  to  be  reckened  in  the 
gross,  in  the  hundred,  or  the  thousand,  of  the  party,  the  sec- 
tion, to  which  we  belong;  and  our  opinion  predicted  geograph- 
ically, as  the  north,  or  the  south?  Not  so,  brothers  and  friends, 
—  please  God,  ours  shall  not  be  so.  We  will  walk  on  our  own 
feet;  we  will  work  with  our  own  hands;  we  will  speak  our  own 
minds.  The  study  of  letters  shall  be  no  longer  a  name  for  pity, 
for  doubt,  and  for  sensual  indulgence.  The  dread  of  man  and 
the  love  of  man  shall  be  a  wall  of  defence  and  a  wreath  of  joy 
around  all.  A  nation  of  men  will  for  the  first  time  exist,  because 
each  believes  himself  inspired  by  the  Divine  Soul  which  also 
inspires  all  men. 

DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  ^ 

In  this  refulgent  summer  it  has  been  a  luxury  to  draw  the 
breath  of  life.  The  grass  grows,  the  buds  burst,  the  meadow  is 
spotted  with  fire  and  gold  in  the  tint  of  flowers.   The  air  is  full 

^  An  address  delivered  before  the  Senior  Class  in  Di\-inity  College,  Cambridge, 
Sunday  evening,  July  15,  1838;  now  printed  in  the  volume  entitled  Nature, 
Addresses,  and  Lectures.  In  his  Journal,  Emerson  wrote,  on  March  14th:  "I 
ought  to  sit  and  think,  and  then  write  a  discourse  to  the  American  clergy,  show- 
ing them  the  ugliness  and  unprofitableness  of  theology  and  churches  at  this  day, 
and  the  glory  and  sweetness  of  the  moral  nature  out  of  whose  pale  they  are 


330  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

of  birds,  and  sweet  with  the  breath  of  the  pine,  the  balm-of- 
Gilead,  and  the  new  hay.  Night  brings  no  gloom  to  the  heart 
with  its  welcome  shade.  Through  the  transparent  darkness  the 
stars  pour  their  almost  spiritual  rays.  Man  under  them  seems  a 
young  child,  and  his  huge  globe  a  toy.  The  cool  night  bathes 
the  world  as  with  a  river,  and  prepares  his  eyes  again  for  the 
crimson  dawn.  The  mystery  of  nature  was  never  displayed 
more  happily.  The  corn  and  the  wine  have  been  freely  dealt 
to  all  creatures,  and  the  never-broken  silence  with  which  the 
old  bounty  goes  forward  has  not  yielded  yet  one  word  of  expla- 
nation. One  is  constrained  to  respect  the  perfection  of  this 
world,  in  which  our  senses  converse.  How  wide;  how  rich; 
what  invitation  from  every  property  it  gives  to  every  faculty 
of  man!  In  its  fruitful  soils;  in  its  navigable  sea;  in  its  moun- 
tains of  metal  and  stone;  in  its  forests  of  all  woods;  in  its  ani- 
mals; in  its  chemical  ingredients;  in  the  powers  and  path  of 
light,  heat,  attraction,  and  life,  it  is  well  worth  the  pith  and 
heart  of  great  men  to  subdue  and  enjoy  it.  The  planters,  the 
mechanics,  the  inventors,  the  astronomers,  the  builders  of 
cities,  and  the  captains,  history  delights  to  honor. 

But  when  the  mind  opens,  and  reveals  the  laws  which  trav- 
erse the  universe,  and  make  things  what  they  are,  then  shrinks 
the  great  world  at  once  into  a  mere  illustration  and  fable  of 
this  mind.  What  am  I?  and  What  is?  asks  the  human  spirit 
with  a  curiosity  new-kindled,  but  never  to  be  quenched.  Be- 
hold these  outrunning  laws,  which  our  imperfect  apprehension 
can  see  tend  this  way  and  that,  but  not  come  full  circle.  Be- 
hold these  infinite  relations,  so  like,  so  unlike;  many,  yet  one. 

almost  wholly  shut."  The  Seniors  in  the  Divinity  School  having  invited  him  to 
make  the  Annual  Address,  Emerson  spoke  out,  happy  to  have  an  opportunity  to 
inspire  these  young  men  with  "the  glory  and  sweetness  of  the  moral  nature," 
and  careless  of  the  hostile  reception  he  might  expect  at  the  hands  of  the  clergy. 
The  address  did,  indeed,  cause  "a  profound  sensation  in  religious  circles,  and  led 
to  a  controversy,"  as  Holmes  says,  "in  which  Emerson  had  little  more  than  the 
part  of  Patroclus  when  the  Greeks  and  Trojans  fought  over  his  body."  The 
address,  Holmes  goes  on  to  say,  "is  reverential,  but  it  is  also  revolutionary.  The 
file-leaders  of  Unitarianism  drew  back  in  dismay,  and  the  ill  names  which  had 
often  been  applied  to  them  were  now  heard  from  their  own  lips  as  befitting  this 
new  heresy;  if  so  mild  a  reproach  as  that  of  heresy  belonged  to  this  alarming 
manifesto.  And  yet,  so  changed  is  the  whole  aspect  of  the  theological  world  since 
the  time  when  that  discourse  was  delivered  that  it  is  read  as  calmly  to-day  as  a 
common  'election  sermon,'  if  such  are  ever  read  at  all."  {Ralph  Waldo  Emerson^ 
pp.  89-91.) 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  331 

I  would  study,  I  would  know,  I  would  admire  forever.  These 
works  of  thought  have  been  the  entertainments  of  the  human 
spirit  in  all  ages. 

A  more  secret,  sweet,  and  overpowering  beauty  appears  to 
man  when  his  heart  and  mind  open  to  the  sentiment  of  virtue. 
Then  he  is  instructed  in  what  is  above  him.  He  learns  that  his 
being  is  without  bound;  that,  to  the  good,  to  the  perfect,  he  is 
born,  low  as  he  now  Hes  in  evil  and  weakness.  That  which  he 
venerates  is  still  his  own,  though  he  has  not  realized  it  yet. 
Ee  ought.  He  knows  the  sense  of  that  grand  word,  though  his 
analysis  fails  entirely  to  render  account  of  it.  When  in  inno- 
cency,  or  when,  by  intellectual  perception,  he  attains  to  say,  — 
*'I  love  the  Right;  Truth  is  beautiful  within  and  without,  for- 
evermore.  Virtue,  I  am  thine;  save  me:  use  me:  thee  will  I 
serve,  day  and  night,  in  great,  in  small,  that  I  may  be  not  vir- 
tuous, but  virtue,"  —  then  is  the  end  of  the  creation  answered, 
and  God  is  well  pleased. 

The  sentiment  of  virtue  is  a  reverence  and  delight  in  the 
presence  of  certain  divine  laws.  It  perceives  that  this  homely 
game  of  life  we  play  covers,  under  what  seem  foolish  details, 
principles  that  astonish.  The  child  amidst  his  baubles  is  learn- 
ing the  action  of  light,  motion,  gravity,  muscular  force;  and  in 
the  game  of  human  life,  love,  fear,  justice,  appetite,  man,  and 
God,  interact.  These  laws  refuse  to  be  adequately  stated. 
They  will  not  be  written  out  on  paper,  or  spoken  by  the  tongue. 
They  elude  our  persevering  thought;  yet  we  read  them  hourly 
in  each  other's  faces,  in  each  other's  actions,  in  our  own  re- 
morse. The  moral  traits  which  are  all  globed  into  every  virtu- 
ous act  and  thought,  —  in  speech,  we  must  sever,  and  de- 
scribe or  suggest  by  painful  enumeration  of  many  particulars. 
Yet,  as  this  sentiment  is  the  essence  of  all  rehgion,  let  me  guide 
your  eye  to  the  precise  objects  of  the  sentiment,  by  an  enumer- 
ation of  some  of  those  classes  of  facts  in  which  this  element  is 
conspicuous. 

The  intuition  of  the  moral  sentiment  is  an  insight  of  the 
perfection  of  the  laws  of  the  soul.  These  laws  execute  them- 
selves. They  are  out  of  time,  out  of  space,  and  not  subject  to 
circumstance.  Thus  in  the  soul  of  man  there  is  a  justice  whose 
retributions  are  instant  and  entire.  He  who  does  a  good  deed, 
is  instantly  ennobled.   He  who  does  a  mean  deed,  is  by  the 


332  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

action  itself  contracted.  He  who  puts  off  impurity,  thereby 
puts  on  purity.  If  a  man  is  at  heart  just,  then  in  so  far  is  he 
God;  the  safety  of  God,  the  immortality  of  God,  the  majesty 
of  God,  do  enter  into  that  man  with  justice.  If  a  man  dis- 
semble, deceive,  he  deceives  himself,  and  goes  out  of  acquaint- 
ance with  his  own  being.  A  man  in  the  view  of  absolute  good- 
ness, adores,  with  total  humihty.  Every  step  so  downward  is  a 
step  upward.  The  man  who  renounces  himself,  comes  to  him- 
self. 

See  how  this  rapid  intrinsic  energy  worketh  everywhere, 
righting  wrongs,  correcting  appearances,  and  bringing  up  facts 
to  a  harmony  with  thoughts.  Its  operation  in  life,  though  slow 
to  the  senses,  is,  at  last,  as  sure  as  in  the  soul.  By  it,  a  man  is 
made  the  Providence  to  himself,  dispensing  good  to  his  good- 
ness, and  evil  to  his  sin.  Character  is  always  known.  Thefts 
never  enrich;  alms  never  impoverish;  murder  will  speak  out  of 
stone  walls.  The  least  admixture  of  a  lie  —  for  example,  the 
taint  of  vanity,  the  least  attempt  to  make  a  good  impression, 
a  favorable  appearance  —  will  instantly  vitiate  the  effect. 
But  speak  the  truth,  and  all  nature  and  all  spirits  help  you  with 
unexpected  furtherance.  Speak  the  truth,  and  all  things  alive 
or  brute  are  vouchers,  and  the  very  roots  of  the  grass  under- 
ground there  do  seem  to  stir  and  move  to  bear  you  witness. 
See  again  the  perfection  of  the  Law  as  it  applies  itself  to  the 
affections,  and  becomes  the  law  of  society.  As  we  are,  so  we 
associate.  The  good,  by  affinity,  seek  the  good;  the  vile,  by 
affinity,  the  vile.  Thus  of  their  own  volition,  souls  proceed  into 
heaven,  into  hell. 

These  facts  have  always  suggested  to  man  the  sublime  creed, 
that  the  world  is  not  the  product  of  manifold  power,  but  of  one 
will,  of  one  mind;  and  that  one  mind  is  everywhere  active,  in 
each  ray  of  the  star,  in  each  wavelet  of  the  pool ;  and  whatever 
opposes  that  will  is  everywhere  balked  and  baffied,  because 
things  are  made  so,  and  not  otherwise.  Good  is  positive.  Evil 
is  merely  privative,  not  absolute:  it  is  like  cold,  which  is  the 
privation  of  heat.  All  evil  is  so  much  death  or  nonentity. 
Benevolence  is  absolute  and  real.  So  much  benevolence  as  a 
man  hath,  so  much  life  hath  he.  For  all  things  proceed  out  of 
this  same  spirit,  which  is  differently  named  love,  justice,  tem- 
perance, in  its  different  applications,  just  as  the  ocean  receives 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  333 

different  names  on  the  several  shores  which  it  washes.  All 
things  proceed  out  of  the  same  spirit,  and  all  things  conspire 
with  it.  Whilst  a  man  seeks  good  ends,  he  is  strong  by  the  whole 
strength  of  nature.  In  so  far  as  he  roves  from  these  ends,  he 
bereaves  himself  of  power,  of  auxiliaries;  his  being  shrinks  out 
of  all  remote  channels,  he  becomes  less  and  less,  a  mote,  a 
point,  until  absolute  badness  is  absolute  death. 

The  perception  of  this  law  of  laws  awakens  in  the  mind  a 
sentiment  which  we  call  the  religious  sentiment,  and  which 
makes  our  highest  happiness.  Wonderful  is  its  power  to  charm 
and  to  command.  It  is  a  mountain  air.  It  is  the  embalmer  of 
the  world.  It  is  myrrh  and  storax,  and  chlorine  and  rosemary. 
It  makes  the  sky  and  the  hills  sublime,  and  the  silent  song  of 
the  stars  is  it.  By  it,  is  the  universe  made  safe  and  habitable, 
not  by  science  or  power.  Thought  may  work  cold  and  intransi- 
tive in  things,  and  find  no  end  or  unity;  but  the  dawn  of  the 
sentiment  of  virtue  on  the  heart  gives  and  is  the  assurance  that 
Law  is  sovereign  over  all  natures ;  and  the  worlds,  time,  space, 
eternity,  do  seem  to  break  out  into  joy. 

This  sentiment  is  divine  and  deifying.  It  is  the  beatitude  of 
man.  It  makes  him  illimitable.  Through  it,  the  soul  first  knows 
itself.  It  corrects  the  capital  mistake  of  the  infant  man,  who 
seeks  to  be  great  by  following  the  great,  and  hopes  to  derive 
advantages  from  another,  —  by  showing  the  fountain  of  all 
good  to  be  in  himself,  and  that  he,  equally  with  every  man,  is 
an  inlet  into  the  deeps  of  Reason.  When  he  says,  "I  ought"; 
when  love  warms  him;  when  he  chooses,  warned  from  on  high, 
the  good  and  great  deed;  then,  deep  melodies  wander  through 
his  soul  from  Supreme  Wisdom.  Then  he  can  worship,  and  be 
enlarged  by  his  worship;  for  he  can  never  go  behind  this  senti- 
ment. In  the  sublimest  flights  of  the  soul,  rectitude  is  never 
surmoimted,  love  is  never  outgrown. 

This  sentiment  lies  at  the  foundation  of  society,  and  suc- 
cessively creates  all  forms  of  worship.  The  principle  of  venera- 
tion never  dies  out.  Man  fallen  into  superstition,  into  sensual- 
ity, is  never  quite  without  the  visions  of  the  moral  sentiment. 
In  like  manner,  all  the  expressions  of  this  sentiment  are  sacred 
and  permanent  in  proportion  to  their  purity.  The  expressions 
of  this  sentiment  affect  us  more  than  all  other  compositions. 
The  sentences  of  the  oldest  time,  which  ejaculate  this  piety, 


334  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

are  still  fresh  and  fragrant.  This  thought  dwelled  always  deep- 
est in  the  minds  of  men  in  the  devout  and  contemplative  East; 
not  alone  in  Palestine,  where  it  reached  its  purest  expression, 
but  in  Egypt,  in  Persia,  in  India,  in  China.  Europe  has  always 
owed  to  Oriental  genius  its  divine  impulses.  What  these  holy 
bards  said,  all  sane  men  found  agreeable  and  true.  And  the 
unique  impression  of  Jesus  upon  mankind,  whose  name  is  not 
so  much  written  as  ploughed  into  the  history  of  this  world,  is 
proof  of  the  subtle  virtue  of  this  infusion. 

Meantime,  whilst  the  doors  of  the  temple  stand  open,  night 
and  day,  before  every  man,  and  the  oracles  of  this  truth  cease 
never,  it  is  guarded  by  one  stem  condition:  this,  namely;  it  is 
an  intuition.  It  cannot  be  received  at  second  hand.  Truly 
speaking,  it  is  not  instruction,  but  provocation,  that  I  can  re- 
ceive from  another  soul.  What  he  announces,  I  must  find  true 
in  me,  or  wholly  reject;  and  on  his  word,  or  as  his  second,  be  he 
who  he  may,  I  can  accept  nothing.  On  the  contrary,  the  ab- 
sence of  this  primary  faith  is  the  presence  of  degradation.  As 
is  the  flood  so  is  the  ebb.  Let  this  faith  depart,  and  the  very 
words  it  spake,  and  the  things  it  made,  become  false  and  hurt- 
ful. Then  falls  the  church,  the  state,  art,  letters,  hfe.  The  doc- 
trine of  the  divine  nature  being  forgotten,  a  sickness  infects 
and  dwarfs  the  constitution.  Once  man  was  all;  now  he  is  an 
appendage,  a  nuisance.  And  because  the  indwelling  Supreme 
Spirit  cannot  wholly  be  got  rid  of,  the  doctrine  of  it  suffers  this 
perversion,  that  the  divine  nature  is  attributed  to  one  or  two 
persons,  and  denied  to  all  the  rest,  and  denied  with  fury.  The 
doctrine  of  inspiration  is  lost;  the  base  doctrine  of  the  majority 
of  voices  usurps  the  place  of  the  doctrine  of  the  soul.  Miracles, 
prophecy,  poetry;  the  ideal  life,  the  holy  life,  exist  as  ancient 
history  merely;  they  are  not  in  the  beHef ,  nor  in  the  aspiration 
of  society;  but,  when  suggested,  seem  ridiculous.  Life  is  comic 
or  pitiful,  as  soon  as  the  high  ends  of  being  fade  out  of  sight, 
and  man  becomes  near-sighted,  and  can  only  attend  to  what 
addresses  the  senses. 

These  general  views,  which,  whilst  they  are  general,  none 
will  contest,  find  abundant  illustration  in  the  history  of  religion, 
and  especially  in  the  history  of  the  Christian  Church.  In  that, 
all  of  us  have  had  our  birth  and  nurture.  The  truth  contained 
in  that,  you,  my  yoimg  friends,  are  now  setting  forth  to  teach. 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  335 

As  the  Cultus,  or  established  worship  of  the  civilized  world,  it 
has  great  historical  interest  for  us.  Of  its  blessed  words,  which 
have  been  the  consolation  of  humanity,  you  need  not  that  I 
should  speak.  I  shall  endeavor  to  discharge  my  duty  to  you, 
on  this  occasion,  by  pointing  out  two  errors  in  its  administra- 
tion, which  daily  appear  more  gross  from  the  point  of  view  we 
have  just  now  taken. 

Jesus  Christ  belonged  to  the  true  race  of  prophets.  He  saw 
with  open  eye  the  mystery  of  the  soul.  Drawn  by  its  severe 
harmony,  ravished  with  its  beauty,  he  Uved  in  it,  and  had  his 
being  there.  Alone  in  all  history,  he  estimated  the  greatness  of 
man.  One  man  was  true  to  what  is  in  you  and  me.  He  saw  that 
God  incarnates  himself  in  man,  and  evermore  goes  forth  anew 
to  take  possession  of  his  world.  He  said,  in  this  jubilee  of  sub- 
lime emotion,  ^'I  am  divine.  Through  me,  God  acts;  through 
me,  speaks.  Would  you  see  God,  see  me;  or,  see  thee,  when 
thou  also  thinkest  as  I  now  think."  But  what  a  distortion  did 
his  doctrine  and  memory  suffer  in  the  same,  in  the  next,  and 
the  following  ages!  There  is  no  doctrine  of  the  Reason  which 
will  bear  to  be  taught  by  the  Understanding.  The  understand- 
ing caught  this  high  chant  from  the  poet's  lips,  and  said,  in  the 
next  age,  ''This  was  Jehovah  come  down  out  of  heaven.  I  will 
kill  you,  if  you  say  he  was  a  man."  The  idioms  of  his  language, 
and  the  figures  of  his  rhetoric,  have  usurped  the  place  of  his 
truth;  and  churches  are  not  built  on  his  principles,  but  on  his 
tropes.  Christianity  became  a  mythus,  as  the  poetic  teaching 
of  Greece  and  of  Egypt,  before.  He  spoke  of  miracles;  for  he 
felt  that  man's  Ufe  was  a  miracle,  and  all  that  man  doth,  and 
he  knew  that  his  daily  miracle  shines,  as  the  character  ascends. 
But  the  word  Miracle,  as  pronounced  by  Christian  churches, 
gives  a  false  impression;  it  is  Monster.  It  is  not  one  with  the 
blowing  clover  and  the  falling  rain. 

He  felt  respect  for  Moses  and  the  prophets;  but  no  unfit  ten- 
derness at  postponing  their  initial  revelations,  to  the  hour  and 
the  man  that  now  is;  to  the  eternal  revelation  in  the  heart. 
Thus  was  he  a  true  man.  Having  seen  that  the  law  in  us  is 
commanding,  he  would  not  suffer  it  to  be  commanded.  Boldly, 
with  hand,  and  heart,  and  life,  he  declared  it  was  God.  Thus  is 
he,  as  I  think,  the  only  soul  in  history  who  has  appreciated  the 
worth  of  a  man. 


336  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

I.  In  this  point  of  view  we  become  very  sensible  of  the  first 
defect  of  historical  Christianity.  Historical  Christianity  has 
fallen  into  the  error  that  corrupts  all  attempts  to  communicate 
religion.  As  it  appears  to  us,  and  as  it  has  appeared  for  ages, 
it  is  not  the  doctrine  of  the  soul,  but  an  exaggeration  of  the  per- 
sonal, the  positive,  the  ritual.  It  has  dwelt,  it  dwells,  with 
noxious  exaggeration  about  the  person  of  Jesus.  The  soul  knows 
no  persons.  It  invites  every  man  to  expand  to  the  full  circle  of 
the  universe,  and  will  have  no  preferences  but  those  of  spon- 
taneous love.  But  by  this  eastern  monarchy  of  a  Christianity, 
which  indolence  and  fear  have  built,  the  friend  of  man  ^  is  made 
the  injurer  of  man.  The  manner  in  which  his  name  is  sur- 
rounded with  expressions,  which  were  once  sallies  of  admira- 
tion and  love,  but  are  now  petrified  into  ofiicial  titles,  kills  all 
generous  sympathy  and  liking.  All  who  hear  me  feel  that  the 
language  that  describes  Christ  to  Europe  and  America,  is  not 
the  style  of  friendship  and  enthusiasm  to  a  good  and  noble 
heart,  but  is  appropriated  and  formal,  —  paints  a  demi-god 
as  the  Orientals  or  the  Greeks  would  describe  Osiris  or  Apollo. 
Accept  the  injurious  impositions  of  our  early  catechetical  in- 
struction, and  even  honesty  and  self-denial  were  but  splendid 
sins,  if  they  did  not  wear  the  Christian  name.  One  would 
rather  be 

"A  pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn," 

than  to  be  defrauded  of  his  manly  right  in  coming  into  nature, 
and  finding  not  names  and  places,  not  land  and  professions, 
but  even  virtue  and  truth  foreclosed  and  monopolized.  You 
shall  not  be  a  man  even.  You  shall  not  own  the  world;  you 
shall  not  dare,  and  live  after  the  infinite  Law  that  is  in  you, 
and  in  company  with  the  infinite  Beauty  which  heaven  and 
earth  reflect  to  you  in  all  lovely  forms ;  but  you  must  subordi- 
nate your  nature  to  Christ's  nature ;  you  must  accept  our  inter- 
pretations; and  take  his  portrait  as  the  vulgar  draw  it. 

That  is  always  best  which  gives  me  to  myself.  The  sublime 
is  excited  in  me  by  the  great  stoical  doctrine,  Obey  thyself. 
That  which  shows  God  in  me,  fortifies  me.  That  which  shows 
God  out  of  me,  makes  me  a  wart  and  a  wen.  There  is  no  longer 

*  Urged  at  least  to  write  "  friend  of  man  "  with  a  capital  F,  Emerson  responded: 
"If  I  did  so,  they  would  all  go  to  sleep." 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  337 

a  necessary  reason  for  my  being.  Already  the  long  shadows 
of  untimely  oblivion  creep  over  me,  and  I  shall  decease  forever. 

The  divine  bards  are  the  friends  of  my  virtue,  of  my  intel- 
lect, of  my  strength.  They  admonish  me,  that  the  gleams  which 
flash  across  my  mind  are  not  mine,  but  God's;  that  they  had 
the  like,  and  were  not  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  vision.  So  I 
love  them.  Noble  provocations  go  out  from  them,  inviting  me 
to  resist  evil;  to  subdue  the  world;  and  to  Be.  And  thus  by  his 
holy  thoughts,  Jesus  serves  us,  and  thus  only.  To  aim  to  con- 
vert a  man  by  miracles,  is  a  profanation  of  the  soul.  A  true 
conversion,  a  true  Christ,  is  now,  as  always,  to  be  made,  by 
the  reception  of  beautiful  sentiments.  It  is  true  that  a  great 
and  rich  soul,  like  this,  falHng  among  the  simple,  does  so  pre- 
ponderate, that,  as  his  did,  it  names  the  world.  The  world 
seems  to  them  to  exist  for  him,  and  they  have  not  yet  drunk  so 
deeply  of  his  sense,  as  to  see  that  only  by  coming  again  to 
themselves,  or  to  God  in  themselves,  can  they  grow  forever- 
more.  It  is  a  low  benefit  to  give  me  something;  it  is  a  high 
benefit  to  enable  me  to  do  somewhat  of  myself.  The  time  is 
coming  when  all  men  will  see,  that  the  gift  of  God  to  the  soul  is 
not  a  vaunting,  overpowering,  excluding  sanctity,  but  a  sweet, 
natural  goodness,  a  goodness  like  thine  and  mine,  and  that  so 
in\ites  thine  arid  mine  to  be  and  to  grow. 

The  injustice  of  the  vulgar  tone  of  preaching  is  not  less  fla- 
grant to  Jesus,  than  to  the  souls  which  it  profanes.  The  preach- 
ers do  not  see  that  they  make  his  gospel  not  glad,  and  shear  him 
of  the  locks  of  beauty  and  the  attributes  of  heaven.  When  I  see 
a  majestic  Epaminondas,  or  Washington;  when  I  see  among 
my  contemporaries,  a  true  orator,  an  upright  judge,  a  dear 
friend ;  when  I  vibrate  to  the  melody  and  fancy  of  a  poem ;  I  see 
beauty  that  is  to  be  desired.  And  so  lovely,  and  with  yet  more 
entire  consent  of  my  human  being,  sounds  in  my  ear  the  severe 
music  of  the  bards  that  have  sung  of  the  true  God  in  all  ages. 
Now  do  not  degrade  the  life  and  dialogues  of  Christ  out  of  the 
circle  of  this  charm,  by  insulation  and  peculiarity.  Let  them 
lie  as  they  befell,  alive  and  warm,  part  of  human  life,  and  of 
the  landscape,  and  of  the  cheerful  day. 

2.  The  second  defect  of  the  traditionary  and  limited  way  of 
using  the  mind  of  Christ  is  a  consequence  of  the  first;  this, 
namely,  that  the  Moral  Nature,  that  Law  of  laws,  whose  reve- 


338  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

lations  introduce  greatness,  —  yea,  God  himself,  into  the  open 
soul,  is  not  explored  as  the  fountain  of  the  established  teaching 
in  society.  Men  have  come  to  speak  of  the  revelation  as  some- 
what long  ago  given  and  done,  as  if  God  were  dead.  The  injury 
to  faith  throttles  the  preacher;  and  the  goodliest  of  institutions 
becomes  an  uncertain. and  inarticulate  voice. 

It  is  very  certain  that  it  is  the  effect  of  conversation  with  the 
beauty  of  the  soul,  to  beget,  a  desire  and  need  to  impart  to 
others  the  same  knowledge  and  love.  If  utterance  is  denied, 
the  thought  lies  like  a  burden  on  the  man.  Always  the  seer  is  a 
sayer.  Somehow  his  dream  is  told:  somehow  he  publishes  it 
with  solemn  joy:  sometimes  with  pencil  on  canvas;  sometimes 
with  chisel  on  stone;  sometimes  in  towers  and  aisles  of  granite, 
his  soul's  worship  is  builded ;  sometimes  in  anthems  or  indefinite 
music;  but  clearest  and  most  permanent,  in  words. 

The  man  enamored  of  this  excellency,  becomes  its  priest  or 
poet.  The  office  is  coeval  with  the  world.  But  observe  the  con- 
dition, the  spiritual  limitation  of  the  office.  The  spirit  only 
can  teach.  Not  any  profane  man,  not  any  sensual,  not  any  liar, 
not  any  slave  can  teach,  but  only  he  can  give,  who  has;  he  only 
can  create,  who  is.  The  man  on  whom  the  soul  descends, 
through  whom  the  soul  speaks,  alone  can  teach.  Courage,  piety, 
love,  wisdom,  can  teach;  and  every  man  can  open  his  door  to 
these  angels,  and  they  shall  bring  him  the  gift  of  tongues.  But 
the  man  who  aims  to  speak  as  books  enable,  as  s3niods  use,  as 
the  fashion  guides,  and  as  interest  commands,  babbles.  Let 
him  hush. 

To  this  holy  office  you  propose  to  devote  yourselves.  I  wish 
you  may  feel  your  call  in  throbs  of  desire  and  hope.  The  office 
is  the  first  in  the  world.  It  is  of  that  reality  that  it  cannot  suffer 
the  deduction  of  any  falsehood.  And  it  is  my  duty  to  say  to 
you,  that  the  need  was  never  greater  of  new  revelation  than 
now.  From  the  views  I  have  already  expressed,  you  will  infer 
the  sad  conviction,  which  I  share,  I  believe,  with  numbers,  of 
the  universal  decay  and  now  almost  death  of  faith  in  society. 
The  soul  is  not  preached.  The  Church  seems  to  totter  to  its 
fall,  almost  all  life  extinct.  On  this  occasion,  any  complaisance 
would  be  criminal,  which  told  you,  whose  hope  and  commission 
it  is  to  preach  the  faith  of  Christ,  that  the  faith  of  Christ  is 
preached. 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  339 

It  is  time  that  this  ill-suppressed  murmur  of  all  thoughtful 
men  against  the  famine  of  our  churches;  this  moaning  of  the 
heart  because  it  is  bereaved  of  the  consolation,  the  hope,  the 
grandeur,  that  come  alone  out  of  the  culture  of  the  moral  na- 
ture; should  be  heard  through  the  sleep  of  indolence,  and  over 
the  din  of  routine.  This  great  and  perpetual  office  of  the 
preacher  is  not  discharged.  Preaching  is  the  expression  of  the 
moral  sentiment  in  application  to  the  duties  of  life.  In  how 
many  churches,  by  how  many  prophets,  tell  me,  is  man  made 
sensible  that  he  is  an  infinite  Soul ;  that  the  earth  and  heavens 
are  passing  into  his  mind;  that  he  is  drinking  forever  the  soul  of 
God?  Where  now  sounds  the  persuasion,  that  by  its  very 
melody  imparadises  my  heart,  and  so  affirms  its  own  origin  in 
heaven?  Where  shall  I  hear  words  such  as  in  elder  ages  drew 
men  to  leave  all  and  follow,  —  father  and  mother,  house  and 
land,  wiie  and  child?  Where  shall  I  hear  these  august  laws  of 
moral  being  so  pronounced,  as  to  fill  my  ear,  and  I  feel  ennobled 
by  the  offer  of  my  uttermost  action  and  passion?  The  test  of 
the  true  faith,  certainly,  should  be  its  power  to  charm  and  com- 
mand the  soul,  as  the  laws  of  nature  control  the  activity  of  the 
hands,  —  so  commanding  that  we  find  pleasure  and  honor  in 
obeying.  The  faith  should  blend  with  the  light  of  rising  and  of 
setting  suns,  with  the  flying  cloud,  the  singing  bird,  and  the 
breath  of  flowers.  But  now  the  priest's  Sabbath  has  lost  the 
splendor  of  nature;  it  is  unlovely;  we  are  glad  when  it  is  done; 
we  can  make,  we  do  make,  even  sitting  in  our  pews,  a  far  better, 
holier,  sweeter,  for  ourselves. 

Whenever  the  pulpit  is  usurped  by  a  formalist,  then  is  the 
worshipper  defrauded  and  disconsolate.  We  shrink  as  soon  as 
the  prayers  begin,  which  do  not  uplift,  but  smite  and  offend  us. 
We  are  fain  to  wrap  our  cloaks  about  us,  and  secure,  as  best  we 
can,  a  solitude  that  hears  not.  I  once  heard  a  preacher  who 
sorely  tempted  me  to  say  I  would  go  to  church  no  more.  Men 
go,  thought  I,  where  they  are  wont  to  go,  else  had  no  soul 
entered  the  temple  in  the  afternoon.  A  snow-storm  was  falling 
around  us.  The  snow-storm  was  real;  the  preacher  merely 
spectral;  and  the  eye  felt  the  sad  contrast  in  looking  at  him, 
and  then  out  of  the  window  behind  him,  into  the  beautiful 
meteor  of  the  snow.  He  had  lived  in  vain.  He  had  no  one  word 
intimating  that  he  had  laughed  or  wept,  was  married  or  in  love, 


340  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

had  been  commended,  or  cheated,  or  chagrined.  If  he  had  ever 
lived  and  acted,  we  were  none  the  wiser  for  it.  The  capital 
secret  of  his  profession,  namely,  to  convert  life  into  truth,  he 
had  not  learned.  Not  one  fact  in  all  his  experience  had  he  yet 
imported  into  his  doctrine.  This  man  had  ploughed,  and 
planted,  and  talked,  and  bought,  and  sold;  he  had  read  books; 
he  had  eaten  and  drunken;  his  head  aches;  his  heart  throbs;  he 
smiles  and  suffers;  yet  was  there  not  a  surmise,  a  hint,  in  all 
the  discourse,  that  he  had  ever  lived  at  all.  Not  a  Hne  did  he 
draw  out  of  real  history.  The  true  preacher  can  be  known  by 
this,  that  he  deals  out  to  the  people  his  life,  —  life  passed 
through  the  fire  of  thought.  But  of  the  bad  preacher,  it  could 
not  be  told  from  his  sermon,  what  age  of  the  world  he  fell  in; 
whether  he  had  a  father  or  a  child;  whether  he  was  a  freeholder 
or  a  pauper;  whether  he  was  a  citizen  or  a  countryman;  or  any 
other  fact  of  his  biography.  It  seemed  strange  that  the  people 
should  come  to  church.  It  seemed  as  if  their  houses  were  very 
unentertaining,  that  they  should  prefer  this  thoughtless  clamor. 
It  shows  that  there  is  a  commanding  attraction  in  the  moral 
sentiment,  that  can  lend  a  faint  tint  of  light  to  dulness  and 
ignorance,  coming  in  its  name  and  place.  The  good  hearer  is 
sure  he  has  been  touched  sometimes;  is  sure  there  is  some- 
what to  be  reached,  and  some  word  that  can  reach  it.  When  he 
listens  to  these  vain  words,  he  comforts  himself  by  their  rela- 
tion to  his  remembrance  of  better  hours,  and  so  they  clatter 
and  echo  unchallenged. 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  when  we  preach  unworthily,  it  is  not 
always  quite  in  vain.  There  is  a  good  ear,  in  some  men,  that 
draws  supplies  to  virtue  out  of  very  indifferent  nutriment. 
There  is  poetic  truth  concealed  in  all  the  commonplaces  of 
prayer  and  of  sermons,  and  though  foolishly  spoken,  they  may 
be  wisely  heard;  for,  each  is  some  select  expression  that  broke 
out  in  a  moment  of  piety  from  some  stricken  or  jubilant  soul, 
and  its  excellency  made  it  remembered.  The  prayers  and  even 
the  dogmas  of  our  church  are  like  the  zodiac  of  Denderah,  and 
the  astronomical  monuments  of  the  Hindoos,  wholly  insulated 
from  anything  now  extant  in  the  life  and  business  of  the  people. 
They  mark  the  height  to  which  the  waters  once  rose.  But  this 
docility  is  a  check  upon  the  mischief  from  the  good  and  devout. 
In  a  large  portion  of  the  community,  the  religious  service  gives 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  341 

rise  to  quite  other  thoughts  and  emotions.  We  need  not  chide 
the  negligent  servant.  Wfe  are  struck  with  pity,  rather,  at  the 
swift  retribution  of  his  sloth.  Alas  for  the  unhappy  man  that 
is  called  to  stand  in  the  pulpit,  and  not  give  bread  of  life.  Every- 
thing that  befalls,  accuses  him.  Would  he  ask  contributions 
for  the  missions,  foreign  or  domestic?  Instantly  his  face  is  suf- 
fused with  shame,  to  propose  to  his  parish,  that  they  should 
send  money  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  miles,  to  furnish  such 
poor  fare  as  they  have  at  home,  and  would  do  well  to  go  the 
hundred  or  the  thousand  miles  to  escape.  Would  he  urge 
people  to  a  godly  way  of  living;  and  can  he  ask  a  fellow-creature 
to  come  to  Sabbath  meetings,  when  he  and  they  all  know  what 
is  the  poor  uttermost  they  can  hope  for  therein?  Will  he  in- 
vite them  privately  to  the  Lord's  Supper?  He  dares  not.  If  no 
heart  warm  this  rite,  the  hollow,  dry,  creaking  formality  is  too 
plain,  than  that  he  can  face  a  man  of  wit  and  energy,  and  put 
the  invitation  without  terror.  In  the  street,  what  has  he  to  say 
to  the  bold  village  blasphemer?  The  village  blasphemer  sees 
fear  in  the  face,  form,  and  gait  of  the  minister. 

Let  me  not  taint  the  sincerity  of  this  plea  by  any  oversight 
of  the  claims  of  good  men.  I  know  and  honor  the  purity  and 
strict  conscience  of  numbers  of  the  clergy.  What  life  the  public 
worship  retains,  it  owes  to  the  scattered  company  of  pious  men, 
who  minister  here  and  there  in  the  churches,  and  who,  some- 
times accepting  with  too  great  tenderness  the  tenet  of  the 
elders,  have  not  accepted  from  others,  but  from  their  own 
heart,  the  genuine  impulses  of  virtue,  and  so  still  command 
our  love  and  awe,  to  the  sanctity  of  character.  Moreover,  the 
exceptions  are  not  so  much  to  be  found  in  a  few  eminent  preach- 
ers, as  in  the  better  hours,  the  tnier  inspirations  of  all,  —  nay, 
in  the  sincere  moments  of  every  man.  But  with  whatever  ex- 
ception, it  is  still  true,  that  tradition  characterizes  the  preach- 
ing of  this  country;  that  it  comes  out  of  the  memory,  and  not 
out  of  the  soul;  that  it  aims  at  what  is  usual,  and  not  at  what  is 
necessary  and  eternal;  that  thus  historical  Christianity  destroys 
the  power  of  preaching,  by  withdrawing  it  from  the  exploration 
of  the  moral  nature  of  man,  where  the  sublime  is,  where  are  the 
resources  of  astonishment  and  power.  What  a  cruel  injustice 
it  is  to  that  Law,  the  joy  of  the  whole  earth,  which  alone  can 
make  thought  dear  and  rich;  that  Law  whose  fatal  sureness  the 


342  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

astronomical  orbits  poorly  emulate,  that  it  is  travestied  and 
depreciated,  that  it  is  behooted  and  behowled,  and  not  a  trait, 
not  a  word  of  it  articulated.  The  pulpit,  in  losing  sight  of  this 
Law,  loses  its  reason,  and  gropes  after  it  knows  not  what.  And 
for  want  of  this  culture,  the  soul  of  the  community  is  sick  and 
faithless.  It  wants  nothing  so  much  as  a  stern,  high,  stoical, 
Christian  discipline,  to  make  it  know  itself  and  the  divinity 
that  speaks  through  it.  Now  man  is  ashamed  of  himself;  he 
skulks  and  sneaks  through  the  world,  to  be  tolerated,  to  be 
pitied,  and  scarcely  in  a  thousand  years  does  any  man  dare  to 
be  wise  and  good,  and  so  draw  after  him  the  tears  and  blessings 
of  his  kind. 

Certainly  there  have  been  periods  when,  from  the  inactivity 
of  the  intellect  on  certain  truths,  a  greater  faith  was  possible 
in  names  and  persons.  The  Puritans  in  England  and  America 
found  in  the  Christ  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  in  the  dogmas 
inherited  from  Rome,  scope  for  their  austere  piety,  and  their 
longings  for  civil  freedom.  But  their  creed  is  passing  away,  and 
none  arises  in  its  room.  I  think  no  man  can  go  with  his  thoughts 
about  him  into  one  of  our  churches,  without  feeling,  that  what 
hold  the  public  worship  had  on  men  is  gone,  or  going.  It  has 
lost  its  grasp  on  the  affection  of  the  good,  and  the  fear  of  the 
bad.  In  the  country,  neighborhoods,  half-parishes  are  signing 
off,  —  to  use  the  local  term.  It  is  already  beginning  to  indicate 
character  and  religion  to  withdraw  from  the  religious  meetings. 
I  have  heard  a  devout  person,  who  prized  the  Sabbath,  say  in 
bitterness  of  heart,  ''On  Sundays,  it  seems  wicked  to  go  to 
church."  And  the  motive  that  holds  the  best  there,  is  now  only 
a  hope  and  a  waiting.  What  was  once  a  mere  circumstance, 
that  the  best  and  the  worst  men  in  the  parish,  the  poor  and 
the  rich,  the  learned  and  the  ignorant,  young  and  old,  should 
meet  one  day  as  fellows  in  one  house,  in  sign  of  an  equal  right 
in  the  soul,  has  come  to  be  a  paramount  motive  for  going 
thither. 

My  friends,  in  these  two  errors,  I  think,  I  find  the  causes  of 
a  decaying  church  and  a  wasting  unbelief.  And  what  greater 
calamity  can  fall  upon  a  nation  than  the  loss  of  worship?  Then 
all  things  go  to  decay.  Genius  leaves  the  temple,  to  haunt  the 
senate,  or  the  market.  Literature  becomes  frivolous.  Science 
is  cold.  The  eye  of  youth  is  not  lighted  by  the  hope  of  other 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  343 

worlds,  and  age  is  without  honor.  Society  lives  to  trifles,  and 
when  men  die,  we  do  not  mention  them. 

And  now,  my  brothers,  you  will  ask,  What  in  these  despond- 
ing days  can  be  done  by  us?  The  remedy  is  already  declared  in 
the  ground  of  our  complaint  of  the  Church.  We  have  con- 
trasted the  Church  with  the  Soul.  In  the  soul,  then,  let  the 
redemption  be  sought.  Wherever  a  man  comes,  there  comes 
revolution.  The  old  is  for  slaves.  When  a  man  comes,  all  books 
are  legible,  all  things  transparent,  all  religions  are  forms.  He  is 
religious.  Man  is  the  wonder-worker.  He  is  seen  amid  miracles. 
All  men  bless  and  curse.  He  saith  yea  and  nay,  only.  The 
stationariness  of  religion;  the  assumption  that  the  age  of  inspi- 
ration is  past,  that  the  Bible  is  closed;  the  fear  of  degrading  the 
character  of  Jesus  by  representing  him  as  a  man;  indicate  with 
sufficient  clearness  the  falsehood  of  our  theology.  It  is  the  office 
of  a  true  teacher  to  show  us  that  God  is,  not  was;  that  he  speak- 
eth,  not  spake.  The  true  Christianity  —  a  faith  like  Christ's 
in  the  infinitude  of  man  —  is  lost.  None  believeth  in  the  soul 
of  man,  but  only  in  some  man  or  person  old  and  departed. 
Ah  me!  no  man  goeth  alone.  All  men  go  in  flocks  to  this 
saint  or  that  poet,  avoiding  the  God  who  seeth  in  secret;  they 
cannot  see  in  secret;  they  love  to  be  blind  in  public.  They 
think  society  wiser  than  their  soul,  and  know  not  that  one  soul, 
and  their  soul,  is  wiser  than  the  whole  world.  See  how  nations 
and  races  flit  by  on  the  sea  of  time,  and  leave  no  ripple  to  tell 
where  they  floated  or  sunk,  and  one  good  soul  shall  make  the 
name  of  Moses,  or  of  Zeno,  or  of  Zoroaster  reverend  forever. 
None  assayeth  the  stern  ambition  to  be  the  Self  of  the  nation, 
and  of  nature,  but  each  would  be  an  easy  secondary  to  some 
Christian  scheme,  or  sectarian  connection,  or  some  eminent 
man.  Once  leave  your  own  knowledge  of  God,  your  own  senti- 
ment, and  take  secondary  knowledge,  as  St.  PauFs,  or  George 
Fox^s,  or  Swedenborg's,  and  you  get  wide  from  God  with  every 
year  this  secondary  form  lasts,  and  if,  as  now,  for  centuries,  — 
the  chasm  yawns  to  that  breadth,  that  men  can  scarcely  be 
convinced  there  is  in  them  anything  divine. 

Let  me  admonish  you,  first  of  all,  to  go  alone;  to  refuse  the 
good  models,  even  those  which  are  sacred  in  the  imagination 
of  men,  and  dare  to  love  God  without  mediator  or  veil.  Friends 
enough  you  shall  find  who  will  hold  up  to  your  emulation  Wes- 


344  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

leys  and  Oberlins/  Saints  and  Prophets.  Thank  God  for  these 
good  men,  but  say,  **I  also  am  a  man.''  Imitation  cannot  go 
above  its  model.  The  imitator  dooms  himself  to  hopeless 
mediocrity.  The  inventor  did  it  because  it  was  natural  to  him, 
and  so  in  him  it  has  a  charm.  In  the  imitator,  something  else 
is  natural,  and  he  bereaves  himself  of  his  own  beauty,  to  come 
short  of  another  man's. 

Yourself  a  new-born  bard  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  —  cast  behind 
you  all  conformity,  and  acquaint  men  at  first  hand  with  Deity. 
Look  to  it  first  and  only,  that  fashion,  custom,  authority, 
pleasure,  and  money  are  nothing  to  you,  —  are  not  bandages 
over  your  eyes,  that  you  cannot  see,  —  but  live  with  the  privi- 
lege of  the  immeasurable  mind.  Not  too  anxious  to  visit  periodi- 
cally all  families  and  each  family  in  your  parish  connection,  — 
when  you  meet  one  of  these  men  or  women,  be  to  them  a  divine 
man;  be  to  them  thought  and  virtue;  let  their  timid  aspirations 
find  in  you  a  friend;  let  their  trampled  instincts  be  genially 
tempted  out  in  your  atmosphere;  let  their  doubts  know  that 
you  have  doubted,  and  their  wonder  feel  that  you  have  won- 
dered. By  trusting  your  own  heart,  you  shall  gain  more  confi- 
dence in  other  men.  For  all  our  penny- wisdom,  for  all  our  soul- 
destroying  slavery  to  habit,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted,  that  all  men 
have  sublime  thoughts;  that  all  men  value  the  few  real  hours 
of  life;  they  love  to  be  heard;  they  love  to  be  caught  up  into 
the  vision  of  principles.  We  mark  with  Hght  in  the  memory  the 
few  interviews  we  have  had,  in  the  dreary  years  of  routine  and 
of  sin,  with  souls  that  made  our  souls  wiser;  that  spoke  what 
we  thought;  that  told  us  what  we  knew;  that  gave  us  leave  to 
be  what  we  inly  were.  Discharge  to  men  the  priestly  office,  and, 
present  or  absent,  you  shall  be  followed  with  their  love-  as  by 
an  angel. 

And,  to  this  end,  let  us  not  aim  at  common  degrees  of  merit. 
Can  we  not  leave,  to  such  as  love  it,  the  virtue  that  glitters  for 
the  commendation  of  society,  and  ourselves  pierce  the  deep 
solitudes  of  absolute  ability  and  worth?  We  easily  come  up  to 
the  standard  of  goodness  in  society.  Society's  praise  can  be 
cheaply  secured,  and  almost  all  men  are  content  with  those 
easy  merits;  but  the  instant  effect  of  conversing  with  God,  will 
be  to  put  them  away.   There  are  persons  who  are  not  actors, 

*  Jean  Frederic  Oberlin  (i 740-1826),  a  French-Gennan  clergjinan. 


DIVINITY  SCHOOL  ADDRESS  345 

not  speakers,  but  influences;  persons  too  great  for  fame,  for 
display;  who  disdain  eloquence;  to  whom  all  we  call  art  and 
artist,  seems  too  nearly  allied  to  show  and  by-ends,  to  the 
exaggeration  of  the  finite  and  selfish,  and  loss  of  the  universal. 
The  orators,  the  poets,  the  commanders,  encroach  on  us  only 
as  fair  women  do,  by  our  allowance  and  homage.  SHght  them 
by  preoccupation  of  mind,  sHght  them,  as  you  can  well  afford 
to  do,  by  high  and  universal  aims,  and  they  instantly  feel  that 
you  have  right,  and  that  it  is  in  lower  places  that  they  must 
shine.  They  also  feel  your  right;  for  they  with  you  are  open  to 
the  influx  of  the  all-knowing  Spirit,  which  annihilates  before 
its  broad  noon  the  Httle  shades  and  gradations  of  intelligence 
in  the  compositions  we  call  wiser  and  wisest. 

In  such  high  communion,  let  us  study  the  grand  strokes  of 
rectitude;  a  bold  benevolence,  an  independence  of  friends,  so 
that  not  the  unjust  wishes  of  those  who  love  us,  shall  impair 
our  freedom,  but  we  shall  resist  for  truth's  sake  the  freest  flow 
of  kindness,  and  appeal  to  sympathies  far  in  advance;  and  — 
what  is  the  highest  form  in  which  we  know  this  beautiful  ele- 
ment —  a  certain  solidity  of  merit,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
opinion,  and  which  is  so  essentially  and  manifestly  virtue,  that 
it  is  taken  for  granted,  that  the  right,  the  brave,  the  generous 
step  will  be  taken  by  it,  and  nobody  thinks  of  commending  it. 
You  would  compliment  a  coxcomb  doing  a  good  act,  but  you 
would  not  praise  an  angel.  The  silence  that  accepts  merit  as 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  is  the  highest  applause. 
Such  souls,  when  they  appear,  are  the  Imperial  Guard  of 
Virtue,  the  perpetual  reserve,  the  dictators  of  fortune.  One 
needs  not  praise  their  courage,  —  they  are  the  heart  and  soul 
of  nature.  O  my  friends,  there  are  resources  in  us  on  which 
we  have  not  drawn!  There  are  men  who  rise  refreshed  on 
hearing  a  threat;  men  to  whom  a  crisis  which  intimidates  and 
paralyzes  the  majority,  —  demanding  not  the  faculties  of  pru- 
dence and  thrift,  but  comprehension,  immovableness,  the  readi- 
ness of  sacrifice,  —  comes  graceful  and  beloved  as  a  bride. 
Napoleon  said  of  Massena,^  that  he  was  not  himself  until  the 
battle  began  to  go  against  him ;  then,  when  the.  dead  began  to 
fall  in  ranks  around  him,  awoke  his  powers  of  combination,  and 
he  put  on  terror  and  victory  as  a  robe.  So  it  is  in  rugged  crises, 
^  One  of  Napoleon's  marshals. 


346  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

in  unweariable  endurance,  and  in  aims  which  put  sympathy 
out  of  question,  that  the  angel  is  shown.  But  these  are  heights 
that  we  can  scarce  remember  and  look  up  to,  without  contrition 
and  shame.  Let  us  thank  God  that  such  things  exist. 

And  now  let  us  do  what  we  can  to  rekindle  the  smouldering, 
nigh-quenched  fire  on  the  altar.  The  evils  of  the  church  that 
now  is  are  manifest.  The  question  returns.  What  shall  we  do? 
1  confess,  all  attempts  to  project  and  establish  a  Cultus  with 
new  rites  and  forms,  seem  to  me  vain.  Faith  makes  us,  and 
not  we  it,  and  faith  makes  its  own  forms.  All  attempts  to  con- 
trive a  system  are  as  cold  as  the  new  worship  introduced  by 
the  French  to  the  goddess  of  Reason,  —  to-day,  pasteboard 
and  filigree,  and  ending  to-morrow  in  madness  and  murder.^ 
Rather  let  the  breath  of  new  life  be  breathed  by  you  through 
the  forms  already  existing.  For,  if  once  you  are  alive,  you  shall 
find  they  shall  become  plastic  and  new.  The  remedy  to  their 
deformity  is,  first,  soul,  and  second,  soul,  and  evermore,  soul. 
A  whole  popedom  of  forms,  one  pulsation  of  virtue  can  uplift 
and  vivify.  Two  inestimable  advantages  Christianity  has  given 
us:  first,  the  Sabbath,  the  jubilee  of  the  whole  world;  whose 
light  dawns  welcome  alike  into  the  closet  of  the  philosopher, 
into  the  garret  of  toil,  and  into  prison  cells,  and  everywhere 
suggests,  even  to  the  vile,  the  dignity  of  spiritual  being.  Let 
it  stand  forevermore,  a  temple,  which  new  love,  new  faith,  new 
sight,  shall  restore  to  more  than  its  first  splendor  to  mankind. 
And  secondly,  the  institution  of  preaching,  —  the  speech  of 
man  to  men,  —  essentially  the  most  flexible  of  all  organs,  of  all 
forms.  What  hinders  that  now,  everywhere,  in  pulpits,  in 
lecture-rooms,  in  houses,  in  fields,  wherever  the  invitation  of 
men  or  your  own  occasions  lead  you,  you  speak  the  very  truth, 
as  your  life  and  conscience  teach  it,  and  cheer  the  waiting, 
fainting  hearts  of  men  with  new  hope  and  new  revelation? 

I  look  for  the  hour  when  that  supreme  Beauty,  which  rav- 
ished the  souls  of  those  Eastern  men,  and  chiefly  of  those 
Hebrews,  and  through  their  lips  spoke  oracles  to  all  time,  shall 
speak  in  the  West  also.  The  Hebrew  and  Greek  Scriptures  con- 
tain immortal  sentences,  that  have  been  bread  of  life  to  millions. 
But  they  have  no  epical  integrity;  are  fragmentary;  are  not 
shown  in  their  order  to  the  intellect.  I  look  for  the  new  Teacher 
^  The  French  Revolution. 


THE  OVER-SOUL  347 

that  shall  follow  so  far  those  shining  laws,  that  he  shall  see 
them  come  full  circle;  shall  see  their  rounding  complete  grace; 
shall  see  the  world  to  be  the  mirror  of  the  soul;  shall  see  the 
identity  of  the  law  of  gravitation  with  purity  of  heart;  and  shall 
show  that  the  Ought,  that  Duty,  is  one  thing  with  Science,  with 
Beauty,  and  with  Joy. 

THE  OVER-SOUL  1 

"  But  souls  that  of  his  own  good  life  partake 
He  loves  as  his  own  self;  dear  as  his  eye 
They  are  to  Him:  He'll  never  them  forsake: 
When  they  shall  die,  then  God  himself  shall  die: 
They  live,  they  live  in  blest  eternity." 

Henry  Moke. 

There  is  a  difference  between  one  and  another  hour  of  life 
in  their  authority  and  subsequent  efifect.  Our  faith  comes  in 
moments;  our  vice  is  habitual.  Yet  there  is  a  depth  in  those 
brief  moments  which  constrains  us  to  ascribe  more  reality  to 
them  than  to  all  other  experiences.  For  this  reason  the  argu- 
ment which  is  always  forthcoming  to  silence  those  who  con- 
ceive extraordinary  hopes  of  man,  namely  the  appeal  to  ex- 
perience, is  forever  invalid  and  vain.  We  give  up  the  past 
to  the  objector,  and  yet  we  hope.  He  must  explain  this 
hope.  We  grant  that  human  life  is  mean,  but  how  did  we 
find  out  that  it  was  mean?  What  is  the  ground  of  this  un- 
easiness of  ours;  of  this  old  discontent?  What  is  the  univer- 
sal sense  of  want  and  ignorance,  but  the  fine  innuendo  by 
which  the  soul  makes  its  enormous  claim?  Why  do  men 
feel  that  the  natural  history  of  man  has  never  been  written, 
but  he  is  always  leaving  behind  what  you  have  said  of  him, 
and  it  becomes  old,  and  books  of  metaphysics  worthless?  The 
philosophy  of  six  thousand  years  has  not  searched  the  chambers 
and  magazines  of  the  soul.  In  its  experiments  there  has  al- 
ways remained,  in  the  last  analysis,  a  residuum  it  could  not 
resolve.  Man  is  a  stream  whose  source  is  hidden.  Our  being  is 
descending  into  us  from  we  know  not  whence.  The  most  exact 
calculator  has  no  prescience  that  somewhat  ^  incalculable  may 

^  Essays,  First  Series,  published  1841.  In  "The  Over-Soul,"  says  Holmes, 
"  Emerson  has  attempted  the  impossible.  He  is  as  fully  conscious  of  this  fact  as 
the  reader  of  his  rhapsody,  —  nay,  he  is  more  profoundly  penetrated  with  it 
than  any  of  his  readers." 

2  A  noun,  as  commonly  in  Emerson. 


348  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

not  balk  the  very  next  moment.  I  am  constrained  every  mo- 
ment to  acknowledge  a  higher  origin  for  events  than  the  will 
I  call  mine. 

As  with  events,  so  is  it  with  thoughts.  When  I  watch  that 
flowing  river,  which,  out  of  regions  I  see  not,  pours  for  a 
season  its  streams  into  me,  I  see  that  I  am  a  pensioner ;  not  a 
cause  but  a  surprised  spectator  of  this  ethereal  water;  that  I 
desire  and  look  up  and  put  myself  in  the  attitude  of  reception, 
but  from  some  alien  energy  the  visions  come. 

The  Supreme  Critic  on  the  errors  of  the  past  and  the 
present,  and  the  only  prophet  of  that  which  must  be,  is  that 
great  nature  in  which  we  rest  as  the  earth  Hes  in  the  soft  arms 
of  the  atmosphere;  that  Unity,  that  Over-Soul,  within  which 
every  man's  particular  being  is  contained  and  made  one  with 
all  other;  that  common  heart  of  which  all  sincere  conversation 
is  the  worship,  to  which  all  right  action  is  submission;  that 
overpowering  reality  which  confutes  our  tricks  and  talents,  and 
constrains  every  one  to  pass  for  what  he  is,  and  to  speak  from 
his  character  and  not  from  his  tongue,  and  which  evermore 
tends  to  pass  into  our  thought  and  hand  and  become  wis- 
dom and  virtue  and  power  and  beauty.  We  live  in  succes- 
sion, in  division,  in  parts,  in  particles.  Meantime  within  man 
is  the  soul  of  the  whole;  the  wise  silence;  the  universal  beauty, 
to  which  every  part  and  particle  is  equally  related ;  the  eternal 
One.  And  this  deep  power  in  which  we  exist  and  whose  beati- 
tude is  all  accessible  to  us,  is  not  only  self-sufficing  and  perfect 
in  every  hour,  but  the  act  of  seeing  and  the  thing  seen,  the 
seer  and  the  spectacle,  the  subject  and  the  object,  are  one. 
We  see  the  world  piece  by  piece,  as  the  sun,  the  moon,  the 
animal,  the  tree;  but  the  whole,  of  which  these  are  the  shin- 
ing parts,  is  the  soul.  Only  by  the  vision  of  that  Wisdom 
can  the  horoscope  of  the  ages  be  read,  and  by  falling  back 
on  our  better  thoughts,  by  yielding  to  the  spirit  of  prophecy 
which  is  innate  in  every  man,  we  can  know  what  it  saith. 
Every  man's  words  who  speaks  from  that  life  must  sound 
vain  to  those  who  do  not  dwell  in  the  same  thought  on  their 
own  part.  I  dare  not  speak  for  it.  My  words  do  not  carry  its 
august  sense;  they  fall  short  and  cold.  Only  itself  can  inspire 
whom  it  will,  and  behold!  their  speech  shall  be  lyrical,  and 
sweet,  and  universal  as  the  rising  of  the  wind.   Yet  I  desire, 


THE  OVER-SOUL  349 

even  by  profane  words,  if  I  may  not  use  sacred,  to  indicate  the 
heaven  of  this  deity  and  to  report  what  hints  I  have  collected 
of  the  transcendent  simplicity  and  energy  of  the  Highest  Law. 

If  we  consider  what  happens  in  conversation,  in  reveries^  in 
remorse,  in  times  of  passion,  in  surprises,  in  the  instructions  of 
dreams,  wherein  often  we  see  ourselves  in  masquerade,  —  the 
droll  disguises  only  magnifying  and  enhancing  a  real  element 
and  forcing  it  on  our  distant  notice,  —  we  shall  catch  many 
hints  that  will  broaden  and  Hghten  into  knowledge  of  the  secret 
of  nature.  All  goes  to  show  that  the  soul  in  man  is  not  an  organ, 
but  animates  and  exercises  all  the  organs;  is  not  a  function, 
like  the  power  of  memory,  of  calculation,  of  comparison,  but 
uses  these  as  hands  and  feet;  is  not  a  faculty,  but  a  light;  is 
not  the  intellect  or  the  will,  but  the  master  of  the  intellect  and 
the  will;  is  the  background  of  our  being,  in  which  they  lie,  — 
an  immensity  not  possessed  and  that  cannot  be  possessed. 
From  within  or  from  behind,  a  light  shines  through  us  upon 
things,  and  makes  us  aware  that  we  are  nothing,  but  the  light 
is  all.  A  man  is  the  fagade  of  a  temple  wherein  all  wisdom 
and  all  good  abide.  What  we  commonly  call  man,  the  eating, 
drinking,  planting,  counting  man,  does  not,  as  we  know  him, 
represent  himself,  but  misrepresents  himseK.  Him  we  do  not 
respect,  but  the  soul,  whose  organ  he  is,  would  he  let  it  ap- 
pear through  his  action,  would  make  our  knees  bend.  When 
it  breathes  through  his  intellect,  it  is  genius;  when  it  breathes 
through  his  will,  it  is  virtue;  when  it  flows  through  his  affection, 
it  is  love.  And  the  blindness  of  the  intellect  begins  when  it 
would  be  something  of  itself.  The  weakness  -of  the  will  begins 
when  the  individual  would  be  something  of  himself.  All  reform 
aims  in  some  one  particular  to  let  the  soul  have  its  way 
through  us;  in  other  words,  to  engage  us  to  obey. 

Of  this  pure  nature  every  man  is  at  some  time  sensible.  Lan- 
guage cannot  paint  it  with  his  colors.  It  is  too  subtile.  It  is 
undefinable,  unmeasurable ;  but  we  know  that  it  pervades  and 
contains  us.  We  know  that  all  spiritual  being  is  in  man.  A 
wise  old  proverb  says,  "God  comes  to  see  us  without  bell"; 
that  is,  as  there  is  no  screen  or  ceiling  between  our  heads  and 
the  infinite  heavens,  so  is  there  no  bar  or  wall  in  the  soul,  where 
man,  the  effect,  ceases,  and  God,  the  cause,  begins.  The  walls 
are^  taken  away.  We  lie  open  on  one  side  to  the  deeps  of  spirit- 


350  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

ual  nature,  to  the  attributes  of  God.  Justice  we  see  and  know, 
Love,  Freedom,  Power.  These  natures  no  man  ever  got  above, 
but  they  tower  over  us,  and  most  in  the  moment  when  our 
interests  tempt  us  to  wound  them. 

The  sovereignty  of  this  nature  whereof  we  speak  is  made 
known  by  its  independency  of  those  Hmitations  which  circum- 
scribe us  on  every  hand.  The  soul  circumscribes  all  things. 
As  I  have  said,  it  contradicts  all  experience.  In  like  manner  it 
abolishes  time  and  space.  The  influence  of  the  senses  has  in 
most  men  overpowered  the  mind  to  that  degree  that  the  walls 
of  time  and  space  have  come  to  look  real  and  insurmountable; 
and  to  speak  with  levity  of  these  limits  is,  in  the  world,  the 
sign  of  insanity.  Yet  time  and  space  are  but  inverse  measures 
of  the  force  of  the  soul.    The  spirit  sports  with  time,  — 

"  Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour, 
Or  stretch  an  hour  to  eternity." 

We  are  often  made  to  feel  that  there  is  another  youth  and 
age  than  that  which  is  measured  from  the  year  of  our  natural 
birth.  Some  thoughts  always  find  us  young,  and  keep  us  so. 
Such  a  thought  is  the  love  of  the  universal  and  eternal  beauty. 
Every  man  parts  from  that  contemplation  with  the  feeling  that 
it  rather  belongs  to  ages  than  to  mortal  life.  The  least  activity 
of  the  intellectual  powers  redeems  us  in  a  degree  from  the  condi- 
tions of  time.  In  sickness,  in  languor,  give  us  a  strain  of  poetry 
or  a  profound  sentence,  and  we  are  refreshed;  or  produce  a 
volume  of  Plato  or  Shakespeare,  or  remind  us  of  their  names, 
and  instantly  we  come  into  a  feeling  of  longevity.  See  how 
the  deep  divine  thought  reduces  centuries  and  millenniums, 
and  makes  itself  present  through  all  ages.  Is  the  teaching  of 
Christ  less  effective  now  than  it  was  when  first  his  mouth  was 
opened?  The  emphasis  of  facts  and  persons  in  my  thought  has 
nothing  to  do  with  time.  And  so  always  the  soul's  scale  is 
one,  the  scale  of  the  senses  and  the  understanding  is  another. 
Before  the  revelations  of  the  soul.  Time,  Space,  and  Nature 
shrink  away.  In  common  speech  we  refer  all  things  to  time, 
as  we  habitually  r^fer  the  immensely  sundered  stars  to  one 
concave  sphere.  And  so  we  say  that  the  Judgment  is  distant 
or  near,  that  the  Millennium  approaches,  that  a  day  of  cer- 
tain political,  moral,  social  reforms  is  at  hand,  and  the  like, 


THE  OVER-SOUL  351 

when  we  mean  that  in  the  nature  of  things  one  of  the  facts 
we  contemplate  is  external  and  fugitive,  and  the  other  is  per- 
manent and  connate  with  the  soul.  The  things  we  now  esteem 
fixed  shall,  one  by  one,  detach  themselves  like  ripe  fruit  from 
our  experience,  and  fall.  The  wind  shall  blow  them  none  knows 
whither.  The  landscape,  the  figures,  Boston,  London,  are  facts 
as  fugitive  as  any  institution  past,  or  any  whiff  of  mist  or 
smoke,  and  so  is  society,  and  so  is  the  world.  The  soul  looketh 
steadily  forwards,  creating  a  world  before  her,  leaving  worlds 
behind  her.  She  has  no  dates,  nor  rites,  nor  persons,  nor  spe- 
cialties, nor  men.  The  soul  knows  only  the  soul;  the  web  of 
events  is  the  flowing  robe  in  which  she  is  clothed. 

After  its  own  law  and  not  by  arithmetic  is  the  rate  of  its 
progress  to  be  computed.  The  soul's  advances  are  not  made 
by  gradation,  such  as  can  be  represented  by  motion  in  a 
straight  line,  but  rather  by  ascension  of  state,  such  as  can  be 
represented  by  metamorphosis,  —  from  the  egg  to  the  worm, 
from  the  worm  to  the  fly.  The  growths  of  genius  are  of  a  cer- 
tain total  character,  that  does  not  advance  the  elect  individual 
first  over  John,  then  Adam,  then  Richard,  and  give  to  each  the 
pain  of  discovered  inferiority,  —  but  by  every  throe  of  growth 
the  man  expands  there  where  he  works,  passing,  at  each  pulsa- 
tion, classes,  populations,  of  men.  With  each  divine  impulse 
the  mind  rends  the  thin  rinds  of  the  \isible  and  finite,  and 
comes  out  into  eternity,  and  inspires  and  expires  its  air.  It 
converses  with  truths  that  have  always  been  spoken  in  the 
world,  and  becomes  conscious  of  a  closer  sympathy  with  Zeno 
and  Arrian  than  with  persons  in  the  house. 

This  is  the  law  of  moral  and  of  mental  gain.  The  simple  rise 
as  by  specific  levity  not  into  a  particular  virtue,  but  into  the 
region  of  all  the  virtues.  They  are  in  the  spirit  which  contains 
them  all.  The  soul  requires  purity,  but  purity  is  not  it;  re- 
quires justice,  but  justice  is  not  that;  requires  beneficence,  but 
is  somewhat  better;  so  that  there  is  a  kind  of  descent  and  ac- 
commodation felt  when  we  leave  speaking  of  moral  nature  to 
urge  a  virtue  which  it  enjoins.  To  the  well-bom  child  all  the 
virtues  are  natural,  and  not  painfully  acquired.  Speak  to  his 
heart,  and  the  man  becomes  suddenly  virtuous. 

Within  the  same  sentiment  is  the  germ  of  intellectual  growth, 
which  obeys  the  same  law.  Those  who  are  capable  of  humility, 


352  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

of  justice,  of  love,  of  aspiration,  stand  already  on  a  platform  that 
commands  the  sciences  and  arts,  speech  and  poetry,  action  and 
grace.  For  whoso  dwells  in  this  moral  beatitude  already 
anticipates  those  special  powers  which  men  prize  so  highly.  The 
lover  has  no  talent,  no  skill,  which  passes  for  quite  nothing  with 
his  enamored  maiden,  however  little  she  may  possess  of  re- 
lated faculty;  and  the  heart  which  abandons  itself  to  the 
Supreme  Mind  finds  itself  related  to  all  its  works,  and  will 
travel  a  royal  road  to  particular  knowledges  and  powers.  In 
ascending  to  this  primary  and  aboriginal  sentiment  we  have 
come  from  our  remote  station  on  the  circumference  instantane- 
ously to  the  centre  of  the  world,  where,  as  in  the  closet  of  God, 
we  see  causes,  and  anticipate  the  universe,  which  is  but  a  slow 
effect. 

One  mode  of  the  divine  teaching  is  the  incarnation  of  the 
spirit  in  a  form,  —  in  forms,  like  my  own.  I  live  in  society; 
with  persons  who  answer  to  thoughts  in  my  own  mind,  or 
express  a  certain  obedience  to  the  great  instincts  to  which 
I  Hve.  I  see  its  presence  to  them.  I  am  certified  of  a  common 
nature;  and  these  other  souls,  these  separated  selves,  draw 
me  as  nothing  else  can.  They  stir  in  me  the  new  emotions  we 
call  passion;  of  love,  hatred,  fear,  admiration,  pity;  thence 
come  conversation,  competition,  persuasion,  cities,  and  war. 
Persons  are  supplementary  to  the  primary  teaching  of  the  soul. 
In  youth  we  are  mad  for  persons.  Childhood  and  youth  see  all 
the  world  in  them.  But  the  larger  experience  of  man  discovers 
the  identical  nature  appearing  through  them  all.  Persons 
themselves  acquaint  us  with  the  impersonal.  In  all  conversa- 
tion between  two  persons  tacit  reference  is  made,  as  to  a  third 
party,  to  a  common  nature.  That  third  party  or  common 
nature  is  not  social;  it  is  impersonal;  is  God.  And  so  in  groups 
where  debate  is  earnest,  and  especially  on  high  questions, 
the  company  become  aware  that  the  thought  rises  to  an  equal 
level  in  all  bosoms,  that  all  have  a  spiritual  property  in  what 
was  said,  as  well  as  the  sayer.  They  all  become  wiser  than 
they  were.  It  arches  over  them  like  a  temple,  this  unity  of 
thought  in  which  every  heart  beats  with  nobler  sense  of 
power  and  duty,  and  thinks  and  acts  with  unusual  solemnity. 
All  are  conscious  of  attaining  to  a  higher  self-possession.  It 
shines  for  all.    There  is  a  certain  wisdom  of  hirnianity  which 


THE  OVER-SOUL  353 

IS  common  to  the  greatest  men  with  the  lowest,  and  which 
our  ordinary  education  often  labors  to  silence  and  obstruct. 
The  mind  is  one,  and  the  best  minds,  who  love  truth  for  its 
own  sake,  think  much  less  of  property  in  truth.  They  accept 
it  thankfully  everywhere,  and  do  not  label  or  stamp  it  with 
any  man's  name,  for  it  is  theirs  long  beforehand,  and  from 
eternity.  The  learned  and  the  studious  of  thought  have  no 
monopoly  of  wisdom.  Their  violence  of  direction  in  some 
degree  disqualifies  them  to  think  truly.  We  owe  many  valu- 
able observations  to  people  who  are  not  very  acute  or  pro- 
found, and  who  say  the  thing  without  effort  which  we  want 
and  have  long  been  hunting  in  vain.  The  action  of  the  soul 
is  oftener  in  that  which  is  felt  and  left  unsaid  than  in  that 
which  is  said  in  any  conversation.  It  broods  over  every  society, 
and  they  unconsciously  seek  for  it  in  each  other.  We  know 
better  than  we  do.  We  do  not  yet  possess  ourselves,  and  we 
know  at  the  same  time  that  we  are  much  more.  I  feel  the  same 
truth  how  often  in  my  trivial  conversation  with  my  neighbors, 
that  somewhat  higher  in  each  of  us  overlooks  this  by-play,  and 
Jove  nods  to  Jove  from  behind  each  of  us. 

Men  descend  to  meet.  In  their  habitual  and  mean  service 
to  the  world,  for  which  they  forsake  their  native  nobleness, 
they  resemble  those  Arabian  sheiks  who  dwell  in  mean 
houses  and  affect  an  external  poverty,  to  escape  the  rapacity 
of  the  Pacha,  and  reserve  all  their  display  of  wealth  for  their 
interior  and  guarded  retirements. 

As  it  is  present  in  all  persons,  so  it  is  in  every  period  of  life. 
It  is  adult  already  in  the  infant  man.  In  my  dealing  with  my 
child,  my  Latin  and  Greek,  my  accomplishments  and  my 
money  stead  me  nothing;  but  as  much  soul  as  I  have  avails. 
If  I  am  wilful,  he  sets  his  will  against  mine,  one  for  one,  and 
leaves  me,  if  I  please,  the  degradation  of  beating  him  by  my 
superiority  of  strength.  But  if  I  renounce  my  will  and  act 
for  the  soul,  setting  that  up  as  umpire  between  us  two,  out  of 
his  young  eyes  looks  the  same  soul;  he  reveres  and  loves  with  me. 

The  soul  is  the  perceiver  and  revealer  of  truth.  We  know 
truth  when  we  see  it,  let  sceptic  and  scoffer  say  what  they 
choose.  FooHsh  people  ask  you,  when  you  have  spoken  what 
they  do  not  wish  to  hear,  *'How  do  you  know  it  is  truth,  and 
not  an  error  of  your  own?''  We  know  truth  when  we  see  it, 


354  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

from  opinion,  as  we  know  when  we  are  awake  that  we  are 
awake.  It  was  a  grand  sentence  of  Emanuel  Swedenborg, 
which  would  alone  indicate  the  greatness  of  that  man's  percep- 
tion, —  *' It  is  no  proof  of  a  man's  understanding  to  be  able  to 
affirm  whatever  he  pleases ;  but  to  be  able  to  discern  that  what 
is  true  is  true,  and  that  what  is  false  is  false, —  this  is  the  mark 
and  character  of  intelligence."  In  the  book  I  read,  the  good 
thought  returns  to  me,  as  every  truth  will,  the  image  of  the 
whole  soul.  To  the  bad  thought  which  I  find  in  it,  the  same 
soul  becomes  a  discerning,  separating  sword,  and  lops  it  away. 
We  are  wiser  than  we  know.  If  we  will  not  interfere  with  our 
thought,  but  will  act  entirely,  or  see  how  the  thing  stands  in 
God,  we  know  the  particular  thing,  and  every  thing,  and  every 
man.  For  the  Maker  of  all  things  and  all  persons  stands  behind 
us  and  casts  his  dread  omniscience  through  us  over  things. 

But  beyond  this  recognition  of  its  own  in  particular  passages 
of  the  individual's  experience,  it  also  reveals  truth.  And  here 
we  should  seek  to  reinforce  ourselves  by  its  very  presence,  and 
to  speak  with  a  worthier,  loftier  strain  of  that  advent.  For  the 
soul's  communication  of  truth  is  the  highest  event  in  nature, 
since  it  then  does  not  give  somewhat  from  itself,  but  it  gives 
itself,  or  passes  into  and  becomes  that  man  whom  it  enlightens; 
or  in  proportion  to  that  truth  he  receives,  it  takes  him  to  itself. 

We  distinguish  the  announcements  of  the  soul,  its  mani- 
festations of  its  own  nature,  by  the  term  Revelation.  These 
are  always  attended  by  the  emotion  of  the  sublime.  For  this 
communication  is  an  influx  of  the  Divine  mind  into  our  mind. 
It  is  an  ebb  of  the  individual  rivulet  before  the  flowing  surges 
of  the  sea  of  life.  Every  distinct  apprehension  of  this  central 
commandment  agitates  men  with  awe  and  delight.  A  thrill 
passes  through  all  men  at  the  reception  of  new  truth,  or  at  the 
performance  of  a  great  action,  which  comes  out  of  the  heart  of 
nature.  In  these  communications  the  power  to  see  is  not  sepa- 
rated from  the  will  to  do,  but  the  insight  proceeds  from  obedi- 
ence, and  the  obedience  proceeds  from  a  joyful  perception. 
Every  moment  when  the  individual  feels  himself  invaded 
by  it  is  memorable.  By  the  necessity  of  our  constitution  a 
certain  enthusiasm  attends  the  individual's  consciousness  of 
that  divine  presence.  The  character  and  duration  of  this 
enthusiasm  vary  with  the  state  of  the  individual,  from  an 


THE  OVER-SOUL  355 

ecstasy  and  trance  and  prophetic  inspiration,  —  which  is  its 
rarer  appearance,  —  to  the  faintest  glow  of  virtuous  emotion,  in 
which  form  it  warms,  like  our  household  fires,  all  the  families 
and  associations  of  men,  and  makes  society  possible.  A  certain 
tendency  to  insanity  has  always  attended  the  opening  of  the 
religious  sense  in  men,  as  if  they  had  been  "blasted  with  excess 
of  light."  The  trances  of  Socrates,  the  ** union"  of  Plotinus, 
the  vision  of  Porphyry,  the  conversion  of  Paul,  the  aurora  of 
Behmen,  ^  the  convulsions  of  George  Fox  and  his  Quakers,  the 
illumination  of  Swedenborg,  are  of  this  kind.  What  was  in  the 
case  of  these  remarkable  persons  a  ravishment,  has,  in  innumer- 
able instances  in  common  life,  been  exhibited  in  less  striking 
manner.  Everywhere  the  history  of  religion  betrays  a  tendency 
to  enthusiasm.  The  rapture  of  the  Moravian  and  Quietist;  the 
opening  of  the  eternal  sense  of  the  Word,  in  the  language  of 
the  New  Jerusalem  Church;  the  revival  of  the  Calvinistic 
churches;  the  experiences  of  the  Methodists,  are  varying  forms 
of  that  shudder  of  awe  and  delight  with  which  the  individual 
soul  always  mingles  with  the  universal  soul. 

The  nature  of  these  revelations  is  the  same;  they  are  per- 
ceptions of  the  absolute  law.  They  are  solutions  of  the  soul's 
own  questions.  They  do  not  answer  the  questions  which  the 
understanding  asks.  The  soul  answers  never  by  words,  but 
by  the  thing  itself  that  is  inquired  after. 

Revelation  is  the  disclosure  of  the  soul.  The  popular  notion 
of  a  revelation  is  that  it  is  a  telling  of  fortunes.  In  past  oracles 
of  the  soul  the  understanding  seeks  to  find  answers  to  sensual 
questions,  and  undertakes  to  tell  from  God  how  long  men  shall 
exist,  what  their  hands  shall  do  and  who  shall  be  their  com- 
pany, adding  names  and  dates  and  places.  But  we  must  pick 
no  locks.  We  must  check  this  low  curiosity.  An  answer  in 
words  is  delusive;  it  is  really  no  answer  to  the  questions  you 
ask.  Do  not  require  a  description  of  the  countries  towards 
which  you  sail.  The  description  does  not  describe  them  to  you, 
and  to-morrow  you  arrive  there  and  know  them  by  inhabiting 
them.  Men  ask  concerning  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the 
employments  of  heaven,  the  state  of  the  sinner,  and  so  forth. 
They  even  dream  that  Jesus  has  left  replies  to  precisely  these 
interrogatories.  Never  a  moment  did  that  subHme  spirit  speak 

*  Jakob  Behmen,  or  Bohme,  or  Bohm  (1575-1624),  a  German  mystic. 


356  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

in  their  patois.  To  truth,  justice,  love,  the  attributes  of  the 
soul,  the  idea  of  immutableness  is  essentially  associated.  Jesus, 
living  in  these  moral  sentiments,  heedless  of  sensual  fortunes, 
heeding  only  the  manifestations  of  these,  never  made  the  sepa- 
ration of  the  idea  of  duration  from  the  essence  of  these  attri- 
butes, nor  uttered  a  syllable  concerning  the  duration  of  the 
soul.  It  was  left  to  his  disciples  to  sever  duration  from  the 
moral  elements,  and  to  teach  the  immortality  of  the  soul  as  a 
doctrine,  and  maintain  it  by  evidences.  The  moment  the  doc- 
trine of  the  immortahty  is  separately  taught,  man  is  already 
fallen.  In  the  flowing  of  love,  in  the  adoration  of  humility, 
there  is  no  question  of  continuance.  No  inspired  man  ever  asks 
this  question  or  condescends  to  these  evidences.  For  the  soul 
is  true  to  itself,  and  the  man  in  whom  it  is  shed  abroad  cannot 
wander  from  the  present,  which  is  infinite,  to  a  future  which 
would  be  finite. 

These  questions  which  we  lust  to  ask  about  the  future  are  a 
confession  of  sin.  God  has  no  answer  for  them.  No  answer  in 
words  can  reply  to  a  question  of  things.  It  is  not  in  an  arbi- 
trary "decree  of  God,"  but  in  the  nature  of  man,  that  a  veil 
shuts  down  on  the  facts  of  to-morrow;  for  the  soul  will  not  have 
us  read  any  other  cipher  than  that  of  cause  and  effect.  By  this 
veil  which  curtains  events  it  instructs  the  children  of  men  to 
live  in  to-day.  The  only  mode  of  obtaining  an  answer  to  these 
questions  of  the  senses  is  to  forego  all  low  curiosity,  and,  accept- 
ing the  tide  of  being  which  floats  us  into  the  secret  of  nature, 
work  and  live,  work  and  live,  and  all  unawares  the  advancing 
soul  has  built  and  forged  for  itself  a  new  condition,  and  the 
question  and  the  answer  are  one. 

By  the  same  fire,  vital,  consecrating,  celestial,  which  bums 
until  it  shall  dissolve  all  things  into  the  waves  and  surges  of 
an  ocean  of  Hght,  we  see  and  know  each  other,  and  what  spirit 
each  is  of.  Who  can  tell  the  grounds  of  his  knowledge  of  the 
character  of  the  several  individuals  in  his  circle  of  friends?  No 
man.  Yet  their  acts  and  words  do  not  disappoint  him.  In 
that  man,  though  he  knew  no  ill  of  him,  he  put  no  trust.  In 
that  other,  though  they  had  seldom  met,  authentic  signs  had 
yet  passed,  to  signify  that  he  might  be  trusted  as  one  who  had 
an  interest  in  his  own  character.  We  know  each  other  very 
well,  —  which  of  us  has  been  just  to  himself  and  whether 


THE  OVER-SOUL  357 

that  which  we  teach  or  behold  is  only  an  aspiration  or  is  our 
honest  effort  also. 

We  are  all  discerners  of  spirits.  That  diagnosis  lies  aloft  in 
our  life  or  unconscious  power.  The  intercourse  of  society,  its 
trade,  its  religion,  its  friendships,  its  quarrels,  is  one  wide 
judicial  investigation  of  character.  In  full  court,  or  in  small 
committee,  or  confronted  face  to  face,  accuser  and  accused, 
men  offer  themselves  to  be  judged.  Against  their  will  they 
exhibit  those  decisive  trifles  by  which  character  is  read.  But 
whp  judges?  and  what?  Not  our  understanding.  We  do  not 
read  them  by  learning  or  craft.  No;  the  wisdom  of  the  wise 
man  consists  herein,  that  he  does  not  judge  them;  he  lets 
them  judge  themselves,  and  merely  reads  and  records  their 
own  verdict. 

By  virtue  of  this  inevitable  nature,  private  will  is  over- 
powered, and,  maugre  our  efforts  or  our  imperfections,  your 
genius  will  speak  from  you,  and  mine  from  me.  That  which 
we  are,  we  shall  teach,  not  voluntarily  but  involuntarily. 
Thoughts  come  into  our  minds  by  avenues  which  we  never 
left  open,  and  thoughts  go  out  of  our  minds  through  avenues 
which  we  never  voluntarily  opened.  Character  teaches  over 
our  head.  The  infallible  index  of  true  progress  is  found  in  the 
tone  the  man  takes.  Neither  his  age,  nor  his  breeding,  nor 
company,  nor  books,  nor  actions,  nor  talents,  nor  all  together 
can  hinder  him  from  being  deferential  to  a  higher  spirit  than 
his  own.  If  he  have  not  found  his  home  in  God,  his  manners, 
his  forms  of  speech,  the  turn  of  his  sentences,  the  build,  shall 
I  say,  of  all  his  opinions  will  involuntarily  confess  it,  let  him 
brave  it  out  how  he  will.  If  he  have  found  his  centre,  the  Deity 
will  shine  through  him,  through  all  the  disguises  of  ignorance, 
of  ungenial  temperament,  of  unfavorable  circumstance.  The 
tone  of  seeking  is  one,  and  the  tone  of  having  is  another. 

The  great  distinction  between  teachers  sacred  or  literary,  — 
between  poets  like  Herbert,  and  poets  like  Pope,  —  between 
philosophers  like  Spinoza,  Kant,  and  Coleridge,  and  philoso- 
phers like  Locke,  Paley,  Mackintosh,  and  Stewart,  —  between 
men  of  the  world  who  are  reckoned  accomplished  talkers,  and 
here  and  there  a  fervent  mystic,  prophesying  half  insane  under 
the  infinitude  of  his  thought,  —  is  that  one  class  speak  from 
within^  or  from  experience,  as  parties  and  possessors  of  the 


358  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

fact;  and  the  other  class  from  without,  as  spectators  merely, 
or  perhaps  as  acquainted  with  the  fact  on  the  evidence  of  third 
persons.  It  is  of  no  use  to  preach  to  me  from  without.  I  can  do 
that  too  easily  myself.,^  Jesus  speaks  always  from  within,  and 
in  a  degree  that  transcends  all  others^  In  that  is  the  miracle. 
I  believe  beforehand  that  it  ought  so  to  be.  All  men  stand 
continually  in  the  expectation  of  the  appearance  of  such  a 
teacher.  But  if  a  man  do  not  speak  from  within  the  veil,  where 
the  word  is  one  with  that  it  tells  of,  let  him  lowly  confess  it. 
The  same  Omniscience  flows  into  the  intellect  and  makes 
what  we  call  genius.  Much  of  the  wisdom  of  the  world  is  not 
wisdom,  and  the  most  illuminated  class  of  men  are  no  doubt 
superior  to  literary  fame,  and  are  not  writers.  Among  the 
multitude  of  scholars  and  authors  we  feel  no  hallowing  pres- 
ence; we  are  sensible  of  a  knack  and  skill  rather  than  of  inspi- 
ration; they  have  a  light  and  know  not  whence  it  comes  and 
call  it  their  own;  their  talent  is  some  exaggerated  faculty,  some 
overgrown  member,  so  that  their  strength  is  a  disease.  In  these 
instances  the  intellectual  gifts  do  not  make  the  impression  of 
virtue,  but  almost  of  vice;  and  we  feel  that  a  man's  talents 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  advancement  in  truth.  But  genius  is 
religious.  It  is  a  larger  imbibing  of  the  common  heart.  It  is 
not  anomalous,  but  more  like  and  not  less  like  other  men. 
There  is  in  all  great  poets  a  wisdom  of  humanity  which  is 
superior  to  any  talents  they  exercise.  The  author,  the  wit,  the 
partisan,  the  fine  gentleman,  does  not  take  place  of  the  man. 
Humanity  shines  in  Homer,  in  Chaucer,  in  Spenser,  in  Shake- 
speare, in  Milton.  They  are  content  with  truth.  They  use  the 
positive  degree.  They  seem  frigid  and  phlegmatic  to  those 
who  have  been  spiced  with  the  frantic  passion  and  violent 
coloring  of  inferior  but  popular  writers.  For  they  are  poets  by 
the  free  course  which  they  allow  to  the  informing  soul,  which 
through  their  eyes  beholds  again  and  blesses  the  things  which 
it  hath  made.  The  soul  is  superior  to  its  knowledge,  wiser 
than  any  of  its  works.  The  great  poet  makes  us  feel  our 
own  wealth,  and  then  we  think  less  of  his  compositions.  His 
best  communication  to  our  mind  is  to  teach  us  to  despise  all 
he  has  done.  Shakespeare  carries  us  to  such  a  lofty  strain  of 
intelligent  activity  as  to  suggest  a  wealth  which  beggars  his 
own;  and  we  then  feel  that  the  splendid  works  which  he  has 


THE   OVER-SOUL  359 

created,  and  which  m  other  hours  we  extol  as  a  sort  of  self- 
existent  poetry,  take  no  stronger  hold  of  real  nature  than  the 
shadow  of  a  passing  traveller  on  the  rock.  The  inspiration 
which  uttered  itself  in  Hamlet  and  Lear  could  utter  things  as 
good  from  day  to  day  forever.  Why  then  should  I  make 
account  of  Hamlet  and  Lear,  as  if  we  had  not  the  soul  from 
which  they  fell  as  syllables  from  the  tongue? 

This  energ>'  does  not  descend  into  individual  life  on  any  other 
condition  than  entire  possession.  It  comes  to  the  lowly  and 
simple ;  it  comes  to  whomsoever  will  put  ofE  what  is  foreign  and 
proud;  it  comes  as  insight;  it  comes  as  serenity  and  grandeur. 
When  we  see  those  whom  it  inhabits,  we  are  apprised  of  new 
degrees  of  greatness.  From  that  inspiration  the  man  comes 
back  with  a  changed  tone.  He  does  not  talk  with  men  with  an 
eye  to  their  opinion.  He  tries  them.  It  requires  of  us  to  be 
plain  and  true.  The  vain  traveller  attempts  to  embelHsh  his 
life  by  quoting  my  lord  and  the  prince  and  the  countess, 
who  thus  said  or  did  to  him.  The  ambitious  vulgar  show  you 
their  spoons  and  brooches  and  rings,  and  preserve  their  cards 
and  compliments.  The  more  cultivated,  in  their  account  of 
their  own  experience,  cull  out  the  pleasing,  poetic  circumstance, 

—  the  visit  to  Rome,  the  man  of  genius  they  saw,  the  brilliant 
friend  they  know;  still  further  on  perhaps  the  gorgeous  land- 
scape, the  mountain  Hghts,  the  mountain  thoughts  they  en- 
joyed yesterday,  —  and  so  seek  to  throw  a  romantic  color  over 
their  life.  But  the  soul  that  ascends  to  worship 'the  great  God 
is  plain  and  true;  has  no  rose-color,  no  fine  friends,  no  chiv- 
alry, no  adventures;  does  not  want  admiration;  dwells  in  the 
hour  that  now  is,  in  the  earnest  experience  of  the  common  day, 

—  by  reason  of  the  present  moment  and  the  mere  trifle  ha\dng 
become  porous  to  thought  and  bibulous  of  the  sea  of  light. 

Converse  with  a  mind  that  is  grandly  simple,  and  literature 
looks  like  word-catching.  The  simplest  utterances  are  worthi- 
est to  be  written,  yet  are  they  so  cheap  and  so  things  of  course, 
that  in  the  infinite  riches  of  the  soul  it  is  like  gathering  a  few 
pebbles  off  the  ground,  or  bottling  a  little  air  in  a  phial,  when 
the  whole  earth  and  the  whole  atmosphere  are  ours.  Nothing 
can  pass  there,  or  make  you  one  of  the  circle,  but  the  casting 
aside  your  trappings  and  dealing  man  to  man  in  naked  truth, 
plain  confession  and  omniscient  affirmation.^ 


36o  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Souls  such  as  these  treat  you  as  gods  would,  walk  as  gods  in 
the  earth,  accepting  without  any  admiration  your  wit,  your 
bounty,  your  virtue  even,  —  say  rather  your  act  of  duty,  for 
your  virtue  they  own  as  their  proper  blood,  royal  as  themselves, 
and  over-royal,  and  the  father  of  the  gods.  But  what  rebuke 
their  plain  fraternal  bearing  casts  on  the  mutual  flattery  with 
which  authors  solace  each  other  and  wound  themselves !  These 
flatter  not.  I  do  not  wonder  that  these  men  go  to  see  Cromwell 
and  Christina  and  Charles  II  and  James  I  and  the  Grand 
Turk.  For  they  are,  in  their  own  elevation,  the  fellows  of  kings, 
and  must  feel  the  servile  tone  of  conversation  in  the  world. 
They  must  always  be  a  godsend  to  princes,  for  they  confront 
them,  a  king  to  a  king,  without  ducking  or  concession,  and  give 
a  high  nature  the  refreshment  and  satisfaction  of  resistance,  of 
plain  humanity,  of  even  companionship,  and  of  new  ideas. 
They  leave  them  wiser  and  superior  men.  Souls  Hke  these 
make  us  feel  that  sincerity  is  more  excellent  than  flattery. 
Deal  so  plainly  with  man  and  woman  as  to  constrain  the  ut- 
most sincerity  and  destroy  all  hope  of  trifling  with  you.  It  is 
the  highest  compliment  you  can  pay.  Their  "highest  prais- 
ing," said  Milton,  *4s  not  flattery,  and  their  plainest  advice  is 
a  kind  of  praising." 

Ineffable  is  the  union  of  man  and  God  in  every  act  of  the 
soul.  The  simplest  person  who  in  his  integrity  worships  God, 
becomes  God ;  yet  forever  and  ever  the  influx  of  this  better  and 
universal  self  •is  new  and  unsearchable.  It  inspires  awe  and 
astonishment.  How  dear,  how  soothing  to  man,  arises  the  idea 
of  God,  peopling  the  lonely  place,  effacing  the  scars  of  our  mis- 
takes and  disappointments!  When  we  have  broken  our  god  of 
tradition  and  ceased  from  our  god  of  rhetoric,  then  may  God 
fire  the  heart  with  his  presence.  It  is  the  doubling  of  the  heart 
itself,  nay,  the  infinite  enlargement  of  the  heart  with  a  power  of 
growth  to  a  new  infinity  on  every  side.  It  inspires  in  man  an 
infallible  trust.  He  has  not  the  conviction,  but  the  sight,  that 
the  best  is  the  true,  and  may  in  that  thought  easily  dismiss  all 
particular  uncertainties  and  fears,  and  adjourn  to  the  sure 
revelation  of  time  the  solution  of  his  private  riddles.  He  is  sure 
that  his  welfare  is  dear  to  the  heart  of  being.  In  the  presence  of 
law  to  his  mind  he  is  overflowed  with  a  reliance  so  universal 
that  it  sweeps  away  all  cherished  hopes  and  the  most  stable 


THE   OVER-SOUL  361 

projects  of  mortal  condition  in  its  flood.  He  believes  that  he 
cannot  escape  from  his  good.  The  things  that  are  really  for 
thee  gravitate  to  thee.  You  are  running  to  seek  your  friend. 
Let  your  feet  run,  but  your  mind  need  not.  If  you  do  not  find 
him,  vvill  you  not  acquiesce  that  it  is  best  you  should  not  find 
him?  for  there  is  a  power,  which,  as  it  is  in  you,  is  in  him  also, 
and  could  therefore  very  well  bring  you  together,  if  it  were  for 
the  best.  You  are  preparing  with  eagerness  to  go  and  render 
a  service  to  which  your  talent  and  your  taste  invite  you,  the 
love  of  men  and  the  hope  of  fame.  Has  it  not  occurred  to  you 
that  you  have  no  right  to  go,  unless  you  are  equally  willing  to 
be  prevented  from  going?  O,  believe,  as  thou  livest,  that  every 
sound  that  is  spoken  over  the  round  world,  which  thou  ought- 
est  to  hear,  will  vibrate  on  thine  ear.  Every  proverb,  every 
book,  every  byword  that  belongs  to  thee  for  aid  or  comfort, 
shall  surely  come  home  through  open  or  winding  passages. 
Every  friend  whom  not  thy  fantastic  will  but  the  great  and 
tender  heart  in  thee  craveth,  shall  lock  thee  in  his  embrace. 
And  this  because  the  heart  in  thee  is  the  heart  of  all;  not  a 
valve,  not  a  wall,  not  an  intersection  is  there  anywhere  in 
nature,  but  one  blood  rolls  uninterruptedly  an  endless  circu- 
lation through  all  men,  as  the  water  of  the  globe  is  all  one  sea, 
and,  truly  seen,  its  tide  is  one. 

Let  man  then  learn  the  revelation  of  all  nature  and  all 
thought  to  his  heart;  this,  namely;  that  the  Highest  dwells 
with  him;  that  the  sources  of  nature  are  in  his  own  mind,  if  the 
sentiment  of  duty  is  there.  But  if  he  would  know  what  the 
great  God  speaketh,  he  must  ^*go  into  his  closet  and  shut  the 
door,"  as  Jesus  said.  God  will  not  make  himself  manifest  to 
cowards.  He  must  greatly  listen  to  himself,  withdrawing  him- 
self from  all  the  accents  of  other  men's  devotion.  Even  their 
prayers  are  hurtful  to  him,  until  he  have  made  his  own.  Our 
religion  vulgarly  stands  on  numbers  of  believers.  Whenever 
the  appeal  is  made,  —  no  matter  how  indirectly,  —  to  num- 
bers, proclamation  is  then  and  there  made  that  religion  is 
not.  He  that  finds  God  a  sweet  enveloping  thought  to  him 
never  counts  his  company.  When  I  sit  in  that  presence,  who 
shall  dare  to  come  in?  When  I  rest  in  perfect  humility,  when 
I  burn  with  pure  love,  what  can  Calvin  or  Swedenborg  say? 

It  makes  no  difference  whether  the  appeal  is  to  numbers  or 


362  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

to  one.  The  faith  that  stands  on  authority  is  not  faith.  The 
reliance  on  authority  measures  the  decline  of  religion,  the  with- 
drawal of  the  soul.  The  position  men  have  given  to  Jesus,  now 
for  many  centuries  of  history,  is  a  position  of  authority.  It 
characterizes  themselves.  It  cannot  alter  the  eternal  facts. 
Great  is  the  soul,  and  plain.  It  is  no  flatterer,  it  is  no  follower; 
it  never  appeals  from  itself.  It  believes  in  itself.  Before  the 
immense  possibilities  of  man  all  mere  experience,  all  past 
biography,  however  spotless  and  sainted,  shrinks  away.  Before 
that  heaven  which  our  presentiments  foreshow  us,  we  can- 
not easily  praise  any  form  of  life  we  have  seen  or  read  of.  We 
not  only  affirm  that  we  have  few  great  men,  but,  absolutely 
speaking,  that  we  have  none;  that  we  have  no  history,  no 
record  of  any  character  or  mode  of  living  that  entirely  contents 
us.  The  saints  and  demigods  whom  history  worships  we  are 
constrained  to  accept  with  a  grain  of  allowance.  Though  in 
our  lonely  hours  we  draw  a  new  strength  out  of  their  memory, 
yet,  pressed  on  our  attention,  as  they  are  by  the  thoughtless 
and  customary,  they  fatigue  and  invade.  The  soul  gives  itself, 
alone,  original,  and  pure,  to  the  Lonely,  Original,  and  Pure, 
who,  on  that  condition,  gladly  inhabits,  leads,  and  speaks 
through  it.  Then  is  it  glad,  young,  and  nimble.  It  is  not  wise, 
but  it  sees  through  all  things.  It  is  not  called  religious,  but  it  is 
innocent.  It  calls  the  light  its  own,  and  feels  that  the  grass 
grows  and  the  stone  falls  by  a  law  inferior  to,  and  dependent  on, 
its  nature.  Behold,  it  saith,  I  am  born  into  the  great,  the  uni- 
versal mind.  I,  the  imperfect,  adore  my  own  Perfect.  I  am 
somehow  receptive  of  the  great  soul,  and  thereby  I  do  overlook 
the  sun  and  the  stars  and  feel  them  to  be  the  fair  accidents 
and  effects  which  change  and  pass.  More  and  more  the  surges 
of  everlasting  nature  enter  into  me,  and  I  become  public  and 
human  in  my  regards  and  actions.  So  come  I  to  live  in  thoughts 
and  act  with  energies  which  are  immortal.  Thus  revering  the 
soul,  and  learning,  as  the  ancient  said,  that  ''its  beauty  is  im- 
mense," man  will  come  to  see  that  the  world  is  the  perennial 
miracle  which  the  soul  worketh,  and  be  less  astonished  at  par- 
ticular wonders;  he  will  learn  that  there  is  no  profane  history; 
that  all  history  is  sacred ;  that  the  universe  is  represented  in 
an  atom,  in  a  moment  of  time.  He  will  weave  no  longer  a 
spott.ed  life  of  shreds  and  patches,  but  he  will  live  with  a  divine 


SELF-RELIANCE  363 

unity.  He  will  cease  from  what  is  base  and  frivolous  in  his 
life  and  be  content  with  all  places  and  with  any  service  he 
can  render.  He  will  calmly  front  the  morrow  in  the  negligency 
of  that  trust  which  cardes  God  with  it  and  so  hath  already  the 
whole  future  in  the  bottom  of  the  heart. 


SELF-RELIANCE  ^ 

"Ne  te  quaesiveris  extra." 

"  Man  is  his  own  star;  and  the  soul  that  can 
Render  an  honest  and  a  perfect  man, 
Commands  all  light,  all  influence,  all  fate; 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early  or  too  late. 
Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still." 
Epilogue  to  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 

"  Cast  the  bantling  on  the  rocks, 
Suckle  him  with  the  she-wolf's  teat, 
Wintered  with  the  hawk  and  fox, 
Power  and  speed  be  hands  and  feet." 

I  READ  the  Other  day  some  verses  written  by  an  eminent 
painter  which  were  original  and  not  conventional.  The  soul 
always  hears  an  admonition  in  such  lines,  let  the  subject  be 
what  it  may.  The  sentiment  they  instil  is  of  more  value  than 
any  thought  they  may  contain.  To  believe  your  own  thought, 
to  believe  that  what  is  true  for  you  in  your  private  heart  is  true 
for  all  men,  —  that  is  genius.  Speak  your  latent  conviction, 
and  it  shall  be  the  universal  sense;  for  the  inmost  in  due  time 
becomes  the  outmost,  and  our  first  thought  is  rendered  back 
to  us  by  the  trumpets  of  the  Last  Judgment.  Familiar  as  the 
voice  of  the  mind  is  to  each,  the  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to 
Moses,  Plato,  and  Milton  is  that  they  set  at  naught  books  and 
traditions,  and  spoke  not  what  men,  but  what  they  thought. 
A  man  should  learn  to  detect  and  watch  that  gleam  of  light 
which  flashes  across  his  mind  from  within,  more  than  the  lustre 
of  the  firmament  of  bards  and  sages.  Yet  he  dismisses  without 
notice  his  thought,  because  it  is  his.   In  every  work  of  genius 

^  Essays,  First  Series.  The  relation  between  the  doctrine  of  self-reliance  and 
the  doctrine  of  the  Over-Soul  is  clearly  indicated  by  Emerson  in  an  address  deliv- 
ered before  the  Anti-Slavery  Society  in  New  York,  March  7,  1854:  "self-reliance, 
the  height  and  perfection  of  man,  is  reliance  on  God."  In  "Self-Reliance,"  how- 
ever, the  emphasis  is  always  on  the  self,  the  single  man,  from  the  three  mottoes 
onward:  "Seek  not  beyond  yourself";  "Man  is  his  own  star";  the  babe  edu- 
cated in  self-reliance  will  excel. 


364  ^RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

we  recognize  our  own  rejected  thoughts;  they  come  back  to  us 
with  a  certain  aHenated  majesty.  Great  works  of  art  have  no 
more  affecting  lesson  for  us  than  this.  They  teach  us  to  abide 
by  our  spontaneous  impression  with  good-humored  inflexibility 
then  most  when  the  whole  cry  of  voices  is  on  the  other  side. 
Else  to-morrow  a  stranger  will  say  with  masterly  good  sense 
precisely  what  we  have  thought  and  felt  all  the  time,  and  we 
shall  be  forced  to  take  with  shame  our  own  opinion  from 
another. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  man's  education  when  he  arrives  at 
the  conviction  that  envy  is  ignorance;  that  imitation  is  suicide; 
that  he  must  take  himself  for  better  for  worse  as  his  portion; 
that  though  the  wide  universe  is  full  of  good,  no  kernel  of 
nourishing  corn  can  come  to  him  but  through  his  toil  bestowed 
on  that  plot  of  ground  which  is  given  to  him  to  till.  The  power 
which  resides  in  him  is  new  in  nature,  and  none  but  he  knows 
what  that  is  which  he  can  do,  nor  does  he  know  until  he  has 
tried.  Not  for  nothing  one  face,  one  character,  one  fact,  makes 
much  impression  on  him  and  another  none.  This  sculpture  in 
the  memory  is  not  without  preestablished  harmony.  The  eye 
was  placed  where  one  ray  should  fall,  that  it  might  testify  of 
that  particular  ray.  We  but  half  express  ourselves,  and  are 
ashamed  of  that  divine  idea  which  each  of  us  represents.  It 
may  be  safely  intrusted  as  proportionate  and  of  good  issues, 
so  it  be  faithfully  imparted,  but  God  will  not  have  his  work 
made  manifest  by  cowards.  A  man  is  relieved  and  gay  when 
he  has  put  his  heart  into  his  work  and  done  his  best;  but  what 
he  has  said  or  done  otherwise  shall  give  him  no  peace.  It  is  a 
deliverance  which  does  not  deliver.  In  the  attempt  his  genius 
deserts  him;  no  muse  befriends;  no  invention,  no  hope. 

Trust  thyself:  every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string.  Ac- 
cept the  place  the  divine  providence  has  found  for  you,  the 
society  of  your  contemporaries,  the  connection  of  events. 
Great  men  have  always  done  so,  and  confided  themselves  child- 
like to  the  genius  of  their  age,  betraying  their  perception  that 
the  absolutely  trustworthy  was  seated  at  their  heart,  working 
through  their  hands,  predominating  in  all  their  being.  And  we 
are  now  men,  and  must  accept  in  the  highest  mind  the  same 
transcendent  destiny;  and  not  minors  and  invalids  in  a  pro- 
tected corner,  not  cowards  fleeing  before  a  revolution,  but- 


SELF-RELIANCE  365 

guides,  redeemers,  and  benefactors,  obeying  the  Almighty 
effort  and  advancing  on  Chaos  and  the  Dark. 

What  pretty  oracles  nature  yields  us  on  this  text  in  the  face 
and  behavior  of  children,  babes,  and  even  brutes!  That  divided 
and  rebel  mind,  that  distrust  of  a  sentiment  because  our  arith- 
metic has  computed  the  strength  and  means  opposed  to  our 
purpose,  these  have  net.  Their  mind  being  whole,  their  eye 
is  as  yet  unconquered,  and  when  we  look  in  their  faces  we  are 
disconcerted.  Infancy  conforms  to  nobody;  all  conform  to  it; 
so  that  one  babe  commonly  makes  four  or  five  out  of  the  adults 
who  prattle  and  play  to  it.  So  God  has  armed  youth  and 
puberty  and  manhood  no  less  with  its  own  piquancy  and 
charm,  and  made  it  enviable  and  gracious  and  its  claims  not  to 
be  put  by,  if  it  will  stand  by  itself.  Do  not  think  the  youth  has 
no  force,  because  he  cannot  speak  to  you  and  me.  Hark!  in 
the  next  room  his  voice  is  sufficiently  clear  and  emphatic.  It 
seems  he  knows  how  to  speak  to  his  contemporaries.  Bashful 
or  bold  then,  he  will  know  how  to  make  us  seniors  very  un- 
necessary. 

The  nonchalance  of  boys  who  are  sure  of  a  dinner,  and  would 
disdain  as  much  as  a  lord  to  do  or  say  aught  to  conciliate  one, 
is  the  healthy  attitude  of  human  nature.  A  boy  is  in  the  parlor 
what  the  pit  is  in  the  playhouse;  independent,  irresponsible, 
looking  out  from  his  corner  on  such  people  and  facts  as  pass  by, 
he  tries  and  sentences  them  on  their  merits,  in  the  swift,  sum- 
mary way  of  boys,  as  good,  bad,  interesting,  silly,  eloquent, 
troublesome.  He  cumbers  himself  never  about  consequences, 
about  interests;  he  gives  an  independent,  genuine  verdict.  You 
must  court  him;  he  does  not  court  you.  But  the  man  is  as  it 
were  clapped  into  jail  by  his  consciousness.  As  soon  as  he  has 
once  acted  or  spoken  with  eclat  he  is  a  committed  person, 
watched  by  the  sympathy  or  the  hatred  of  hundreds,  whose 
affections  must  now  enter  into  his  account.  There  is  no  Lethe 
for  this.  Ah,  that  he  could  pass  again  into  his  neutrality!  Who 
can  thus  avoid  all  pledges  and,  having  observed,  observe  again 
from  the  same  unaffected,  unbiased,  unbribable,  unaffrighted 
innocence,  —  must  always  be  formidable.  He  would  utter 
opinions  on  all  passing  affairs,  which  being  seen  to  be  not  pri- 
vate but  necessary,  would  sink  like  darts  into  the  ear  of  men 
and  put  them  in  fear. 


r, 


366  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

These  are  the  voices  which  we  hear  in  solitude,  but  they 
grow  faint  and  inaudible  as  we  enter  into  the  world.  Society 
everywhere  is  in  conspiracy  against  the  manhood  of  every  one 
of  its  members.  Society  is  a  joint-stock  company,  in  which 
the  members  agree,  for  the  better  securing  of  his  bread  to  each 
shareholder,  to  surrender  the  liberty  and  culture  of  the  eater. 
The  virtue  in  most  request  is  conformity.  Self-reliance  is  its 
aversion.  It  loves  not  realities  and  creators,  but  names  and 
customs. 

Whoso  would  be  a  man,  must  be  a  nonconformist.  He  who 
would  gather  immortal  palms  must  not  be  hindered  by  the 
name  of  goodness,  but  must  explore  if  it  be  goodness.  Nothing 
is  at  last  sacred  but  the  integrity  of  your  own  mind.  Absolve 
you  to  yourself,  and  you  shall  have  the  suffrage  of  the  world.  I 
remember  an  answer  which  when  quite  young  I  was  prompted 
to  make  to  a  valued  adviser  who  was  wont  to  importune  me 
with  the  dear  old  doctrines  of  the  church.  On  my  saying, 
"What  have  I  to  do  with  the  sacredness  of  traditions,  if  I  live 
wholly  from  within?"  my  friend  suggested,  —  "But  these 
impulses  may  be  from  below,  not  from  above."  I  replied, 
"They  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  such;  but  if  I  am  the  Devil's 
child,  I  will  live  then  from  the  Devil."  No  law  can  be  sacred 
to  me  but  that  of  my  nature.  Good  and  bad  are  but  names 
very  readily  transferable  to  that  or  this ;  the  only  right  is  what 
is  after  my  constitution;  the  only  wrong  what  is  against  it. 
A  man  is  to  carry  himself  in  the  presence  of  all  opposition  as  if 
everything  were  titular  and  ephemeral  but  he.  I  am  ashamed 
to  think  how  easily  we  capitulate  to  badges  and  names,  to 
large  societies  and  dead  institutions.  Every  decent  and  well- 
spoken  individual  affects  and  sways  me  more  than  is  right.  I 
ought  to  go  upright  and  vital,  and  speak  the  rude  truth  in  all 
ways.  If  malice  and  vanity  wear  the  coat  of  philanthropy, 
shall  that  pass?  If  an  angry  bigot  assumes  this  bountiful  cause 
of  Abolition,  and  comes  to  me  with  his  last  news  from  Barba- 
does,  why  should  I  not  say  to  him,  "Go  love  thy  infant;  love 
thy  wood-chopper;  be  good-natured  and  modest;  have  that 
grace;  and  never  varnish  your  hard,  uncharitable  ambition 
with  this  incredible  tenderness  for  black  folk  a  thousand  miles 
off.  Thy  love  afar  is  spite  at  home."  Rough  and  graceless 
would  be  such  greeting,  but  truth  is  handsomer  than  the 


SELF-RELIANCE  367 

affectation  of  love.  Your  goodness  must  have  some  edge  to  it, 
—  else  it  is  none.  The  doctrine  of  hatred  must  be  preached,  as 
the  counteraction  of  the  doctrine  of  love,  when  that  pules  and 
whines.  I  shun  father  and  mother  and  wife  and  brother  when 
my  genius  calls  me.  I  would  write  on  the  lintels  of  the  door- 
post, Whim.  I  hope  it  is  somewhat  better  than  whim  at  last, 
but  we  cannot  spend  the  day  in  explanation.  Expect  me  not  to 
show  cause  why  I  seek  or  why  I  exclude  company.  Then  again, 
do  not  tell  me.  as  a  good  man  did  to-day,  of  my  obligation  to 
put  all  poor  men  in  good  situations.  Are  they  my  poor?  I  tell 
thee,  thou  foolish  philanthropist,  that  I  grudge  the  dollar,  the 
dime,  the  cent  I  give  to  such  men  as  do  not  belong  to  me  and 
to  whom  I  do  not  belong.  There  is  a  class  of  persons  to  whom 
by  all  spiritual  affinity  I  am  bought  and  sold;  for  them  I  will 
go  to  prison  if  need  be;  but  your  miscellaneous  popular  chari- 
ties; the  education  at  college  of  fools;  the  building  of  meeting- 
houses to  the  vain  end  to  which  many  now  stand;  alms  to  sots, 
and  the  thousand-fold  Relief  Societies;  —  though  I  confess 
with  shame  I  sometimes  succumb  and  give  the  dollar,  it  is  a 
wicked  dollar,  which  by  and  by  I  shall  have  the  manhood  to 
withhold. 

Virtues  are,  in  the  popular  estimate,  rather  the  exception 
than  the  rule.  There  is  the  man  and  his  virtues.  Men  do  what 
is  called  a  good  action,  as  some  piece  of  courage  or  charity, 
much  as  they  would  pay  a  fine  in  expiation  of  daily  non-appear- 
ance on  parade.  Their  works  are  done  as  an  apology  or  exten- 
uation of  their  li\ing  in  the  world,  —  as  invalids  and  the  insane 
pay  a  high  board.  Their  virtues  are  penances.  I  do  not  wish  to 
expiate,  but  to  live.  My  life  is  for  itself  and  not  for  a  spectacle. 
I  much  prefer  that  it  should  be  of  a  lower  strain,  so  it  be  genu- 
ine and  equal,  than  that  it  should  be  glittering  and  unsteady. 
I  wish  it  to  be  sound  and  sweet,  and  not  to  need  diet  and 
bleeding.  I  ask  primary  evidence  that  you  are  a  man,  and  refuse 
this  appeal  from  the  man  to  his  actions.  I  know  that  for  my- 
self it  makes  no  difference  whether  I  do  or  forbear  those  actions 
which  are  reckoned  excellent.  I  cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a 
privilege  where  I  have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as  my 
gifts  may  be,  I  actually  am,  and  do  not  need  for  my  own  assur- 
ance or  the  assurance  of  my  fellows  any  secondary  testimony. 

What  I  must  do  is  all  that  concerns  me,  not  what  the  people 


368  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

think.  This  rule,  equally  arduous  in  actual  and  in  intellectual 
life,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinction  between  greatness  and 
meanness.  It  is  the  harder  because  you  will  always  find  those 
who  think  they  know  what  is  your  duty  better  than  you  know 
it.  It  is  easy  in  the  world  to  live  after  the  world's  opinion;  it  is 
easy  in  solitude  to  live  after  our  own;  but  the  great  man  is  he 
who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  perfect  sweetness  the 
independence  of  solitude. 

The  objection  to  conforming  to  usages  that  have  become 
dead  to  you  is  that  it  scatters  your  force.  It  loses  your  time 
and  blurs  the  impression  of  your  character.  If  you  maintain  a 
dead  church,  contribute  to  a  dead  Bible-society,  vote  with  a 
great  party  either  for  the  government  or  against  it,  spread 
your  table  like  base  housekeepers,  —  under  all  these  screens  I 
have  difficulty  to  detect  the  precise  man  you  are :  and  of  course 
so  much  force  is  withdrawn  from  all  your  proper  life.  But  do 
your  work,  and  I  shall  know  you.  Do  your  work,  and  you  shall 
reinforce  yourself.  A  man  must  consider  what  a  blind-man's- 
buff  is  this  game  of  conformity.  If  I  know  your  sect  I  antici- 
pate your  argument.  I  hear  a  preacher  announce  for  his  text 
and  topic  the  expediency  of  one  of  the  institutions  of  his  church. 
Do  I  not  know  beforehand  that  not  possibly  can  he  say  a  new 
and  spontaneous  word?  Do  I  not  know  that  with  all  this  osten- 
tation of  examining  the  grounds  of  the  institution  he  will  do 
no  such  thing?  Do  I  not  know  that  he  is  pledged  to  himself  not 
to  look  but  at  one  side,  the  permitted  side,  not  as  a  man,  but  as 
a  parish  minister?  He  is  a  retained  attorney,  and  these  airs  of 
the  bench  are  the  emptiest  affectation.  Well,  most  men  have 
bound  their  eyes  with  one  or  another  handkerchief,  and  at- 
tached themselves  to  some  one  of  these  communities  of  opinion. 
This  conformity  makes  them  not  false  in  a  few  particulars, 
authors  of  a  few  lies,  but  false  in  all  particulars.  Their  every 
truth  is  not  quite  true.  Their  two  is  not  the  real  two,  their  four 
not  the  real  four;  so  that  every  word  they  say  chagrins  us  and 
we  know  not  where  to  begin  to  set  them  right.  Meantime  nature 
is  not  slow  to  equip  us  in  the  prison-uniform  of  the  party  to 
which  we  adhere.  We  come  to  wear  one  cut  of  face  and  figure, 
and  acquire  by  degrees  the  gentlest  asinine  expression.  There 
is  a  mortifying  experience  in  particular,  which  does  not  fail  to 
wreak  itself. also  in  the  general  history;  I  mean  the  "foolish 


SELF-RELIANCE  369 

face  of  praise,"  the  forced  smile  which  we  put  on  in  company 
where  we  do  not  feel  at  ease,  in  answer  to  conversation  which 
does  not  interest  us.  The  muscles,  not  spontaneously  moved 
but  moved  by  a  low  usurping  wilfulness,  grow  tight  about  the 
outline  of  the  face,  with  the  most  disagreeable  sensation. 

For  nonconformity  the  world  whips  you  with  its  displeasure. 
And  therefore  a  man  must  know  how  to  estimate  a  sour  face. 
The  by-standers  look  askance  on  him  in  the  pubUc  street  or  in 
the  friend's  parlor.  If  this  aversion  had  its  origin  in  contempt 
and  resistance  like  his  own  he  might  well  go  home  with  a  sad 
countenance;  but  the  sour  faces  of  the  multitude,  like  their 
sweet  faces,  have  no  deep  cause,  but  are  put  on  and  off  as  the 
wind  blows  and  a  newspaper  directs.  Yet  is  the  discontent  of 
the  multitude  more  formidable  than  that  of  the  senate  and  the 
college.  It  is  easy  enough  for  a  firm  man  who  knows  the  world 
to  brook  the  rage  of  the  cultivated  classes.  Their  rage  is  deco- 
rous and  prudent,  for  they  are  timid,  as  being  very  vulnerable 
themselves.  But  when  to  their  feminine  rage  the  indignation 
of  the  people  is  added,  when  the  ignorant  and  the  poor  are 
aroused,  when  the  unintelligent  brute  force  that  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  society  is  made  to  growl  and  mow,  it  needs  the  habit 
of  magnanimity  and  reHgion  to  treat  it  godlike  as  a  trifle  of  no 
concernment. 

The  other  terror  that  scares  us  from  self-trust  is  our  consist- 
ency ;  a  reverence  for  our  past  act  or  word  because  the  eyes  of 
others  have  no  other  data  for  computing  our  orbit  than  our 
past  acts,  and  we  are  loth  to  disappoint  them. 

But  why  should  you  keep  your  head  over  your  shoulder? 
Why  drag  about  this  corpse  of  your  memory,  lest  you  contra- 
dict somewhat  you  have  stated  in  this  or  that  public  place? 
Suppose  you  should  contradict  yourself;  what  then?  It  seems 
to  be  a  rule  of  wisdom  never  to  rely  on  your  memory  alone, 
scarcely  even  in  acts  of  pure  memory,  but  to  bring  the  past  for 
judgment  into  the  thousand-eyed  present,  and  live  ever  in  a 
new  day.  In  your  metaphysics  you  have  denied  personality 
to  the  Deity,  yet  when  the  devout  motions  of  the  soul  come, 
yield  to  them  heart  and  Ufe,  though  they  should  clothe  God 
with  shape  ai\d  color.  Leave  your  theory,  as  Joseph  his  coat 
in  the  hand  of  the  harlot,  and  flee. 

A  fooUsh  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  httle  minds,  adored 


370  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

by  little  statesmen  and  philosophers  and  divines.  With  con- 
sistency a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing  to  do.  He  may  as  well 
concern  himself  with  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  Speak  what  you 
think  now  in  hard  words  and  to-morrow  speak  what  to-morrow 
thinks  in  hard  words  again,  though  it  contradict  everything 
you  said  to-day.  —  "Ah,  so  you  shall  be  sure  to  be  misunder- 
stood." —  Is  it  so  bad  then  to  be  misunderstood?  Pythagoras 
was  misunderstood,  and  Socrates,  .and  Jesus,  and  Luther,  and 
Copernicus,  and  Galileo,  and  Newton,  and  every  pure  and  wise 
spirit  that  ever  took  flesh.  To  be  great  is  to  be  misunderstood. 

I  suppose  no  man  can  violate  his  nature.  All  the  sallies  of 
his  will  are  rounded  in  by  the  law  of  his  being,  as  the  inequali- 
ties of  Andes  and  Himmaleh  are  insignificant  in  the  curve  of 
the  sphere.  Nor  does  it  matter  how  you  gauge  and  try  him. 
A  character  is  like  an  acrostic  or  Alexandrian  stanza;  —  read  it 
forward,  backward,  or  across,  it  still  spells  the  same  thing. ^  In 
this  pleasing  contrite  wood-life  which  God  allows  me,  let  me 
record  day  by  day  my  honest  thought  without  prospect  or  ret- 
rospect, and,  I  cannot  doubt,  it  will  be  found  symmetrical, 
though  I  mean  it  not  and  see  it  not.  My  book  should  smell  of 
pines  and  resound  with  the  hum  of  insects.  The  swallow  over 
my  window  should  interweave  that  thread  or  straw  he  carries 
in  his  bill  into  my  web  also.  We  pass  for  what  we  are.  Charac- 
ter teaches  above  our  wills.  Men  imagine  that  they  communi- 
cate their  virtue  or  vice  only  by  overt  actions,  and  do  not  see 
that  virtue  or  vice  emit  a  breath  every  moment. 

There  will  be  an  agreement  in  whatever  variety  of  actions, 
so  they  be  each  honest  and  natural  in  their  hour.  For  of  one 
will,  the  actions  will  be  harmonious,  however  unlike  they  seem. 
These  varieties  are  lost  sight  of  at  a  little  distance,  at  a  little 
height  of  thought.  One  tendency  unites  them  all.  The  voyage 
of  the  best  ship  is  a  zigzag  line  of  a  hundred  tacks.  See  the  line 
from  a  sufficient  distance,  and  it  straightens  itself  to  the  aver- 
age tendency.  Your  genuine  action  will  explain  itself  and  will 
explain  your  other  genuine  actions.  Your  conformity  explains 
nothing.  Act  singly,  and  what  you  have  already  done  singly 
will  justify  you  now.  Greatness  appeals  to  the  future.  If  I  can 
be  firm  enough  to-day  to  do  right  and  scorn  eye^,  I  must  have 

1  The  description  j5ts  a  palindrome,  not  an  acrostic,  or  an  Alexandrian  stanza, 
whatever  Emerson  may  have  meant  by  that. 


SELF-RELIANCE  371 

done  so  much  right  before  as  to  defend  me  now.  Be  it  how  it 
will,  do  right  now.  Always  scorn  appearances  and  you  always 
may.  The  force  of  character  is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone 
days  of  virtue  work  their  health  into  this.  What  makes  the 
majesty  of  the  heroes  of  the  senate  and  the  field,  which  so  fills 
the  imagination?  The  consciousness  of  a  train  of  great  days 
and  victories  behind.  They  shed  a  united  light  on  the  advanc- 
ing actor.  He  is  attended  as  by  a  visible  escort  of  angels.  That 
is  it  which  throws  thunder  into  Chatham's  voice,  and  dignity 
into  Washington's  port,  and  America  into  Adams's  eye.^ 
Honor  is  venerable  to  us  because  it  is  no  ephemera.  It  is  always 
ancient  virtue.  We  worship  it  to-day  because  it  is  not  of  to- 
day. We  love  it  and  pay  it  homage  because  it  is  not  a  trap  for 
our  love  and  homage,  but  is  self-dependent,  self-derived,  and 
therefore  of  an  old  immaculate  pedigree,  even  if  shown  in  a 
yoimg  person. 

I  hope  in  these  days  we  have  heard  the  last  of  conformity 
and  consistency.  Let  the  words  be  gazetted  and  ridiculous 
henceforward.  Instead  of  the  gong  for  dinner,  let  us  hear  a 
whistle  from  the  Spartan  fife.  Let  us  never  bow  and  apologize 
more.  A  great  man  is  coming  to  eat  at  my  house.  I  do  not  wish 
to  please  him;  I  wish  that  he  would  wish  to  please  me.  I  will 
stand  here  for  humanity,  and  though  I  would  make  it  kind, 
I  would  make  it  true.  Let  us  affront  and  reprimand  the  smooth 
mediocrity  and  squalid  contentment  of  the  times,  and  hurl  in  the 
face  of  custom  and  trade  and  office,  the  fact  which  is  the  upshot 
of  all  history,  that  there  is  a  great  responsible  Thinker  and 
Actor  working  wherever  a  man  works;  that  a  true  man  belongs 
to  no  other  time  or  place,  but  is  the  centre  of  things.  Where  he 
is  there  is  nature.  He  measures  you  and  all  men  and  all  events. 
Ordinarily,  everybody  in  society  reminds  us  of  somewhat  else, 
or  of  some  other  person.  Character,  reaHty,  reminds  you  of 
nothing  else;  it  takes  place  of  ^  the  whole  creation.  The  man 
must  be  so  much  that  he  must  make  all  circumstances  indiffer- 
ent. Every  true  man  is  a  cause,  a  country,  and  an  age;  requires 
infinite  spaces  and  numbers  and  time  fully  to  accomplish  his 
design;  —  and  posterity  seem  to  follow  his  steps  as  a  train  of 
clients.    A  man  Caesar  is  bom,  and  for  ages  after  we  have  a 

*  Probably  Samuel  Adams,  perhaps  John  Adams. 
'  Takes  precedence  of. 


372  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Roman  Empire.  Christ  is  born,  and  millions  of  minds  so  grow 
and  cleave  to  his  genius  that  he  is  confounded  with  virtue  and 
the  possible  of  man.  An  institution  is  the  lengthened  shadow 
of  one  man;  as,  Monachism,  of  the  Hermit  Antony;  ^  the 
Reformation,  of  Luther;  Quakerism,  of  Fox;  Methodism,  of 
Wesley;  Abolition,  of  Clarkson.^  Scipio,  Milton  called  **the 
height  of  Rome";  and  all  history  resolves  itself  very  easily 
into  the  biography  of  a  few  stout  and  earnest  persons. 

Let  a  man  then  know  his  worth,  and  keep  things  under  his 
feet.  Let  him  not  peep  or  steal,  or  skulk  up  and  down  with  the 
air  of  a  charity-boy,  a  bastard,  or  an  interloper  in  the  world 
which  exists  for  him.  But  the  man  in  the  street,  finding  no  worth 
in  himself  which  corresponds  to  the  force  which  built  a  tower  or 
sculptured  a  marble  god,  feels  poor  when  he  looks  on  these. 
To  him  a  palace,  a  statue,  or  a  costly  book  have  an  ahen  and 
forbidding  air,  much  like  a  gay  equipage,  and  seem  to  say  like 
that,  ''Who  are  you.  Sir?"  Yet  they  all  are  his,  suitors  for  his 
notice,  petitioners  to  his  faculties  that  they  will  come  out  and 
take  possession.  The  picture  waits  for  my  verdict;  it  is  not  to 
command  me,  but  I  am  to  settle  its  claims  to  praise.  That  popu- 
lar fable  of  the  sot  who  was  picked  up  dead-drunk  in  the  street, 
carried  to  the  duke's  house,  washed  and  dressed  and  laid  in  the 
duke's  bed,  and,  on  his  waking,  treated  with  all  obsequious 
ceremony  like  the  duke,  and  assured  that  he  had  been  insane, 
owes  its  popularity  to  the  fact  that  it  symbolizes  so  well  the 
state  of  man,  who  is  in  the  world  a  sort  of  sot,  but  now  and  then 
wakes  up,  exercises  his  reason  and  finds  himself  a  true  prince.^ 

Our  reading  is  mendicant  and  sycophantic.  In  history  our 
imagination  plays  us  false.  Kingdom  and  lordship,  power  and 
estate,  are  a  gaudier  vocabulary  than  private  John  and  Edward 
in  a  small  house  and  common  day's  work;  but  the  things  of  life 
are  the  same  to  both;  the  sum  total  of  both  is  the  same.  Why 
all  this  deference  to  Alfred  and  Scanderbeg  and  Gustavus? 
Suppose  they  were  virtuous;  did  they  wear  out  virtue?  As  great 
a  stake  depends  on  your  private  act  to-day  as  followed  their 
public  and  renowned  steps.   When  private  men  shall  act  with 

1  St.  Anthony  (251-356),  the  Egyptian  founder  of  monastic  life. 

2  Thomas  Clarkson  (i 760-1846),  an  English  philanthropist. 

'  See  Induction  of  Shakespeare's  Taming  of  the  Shrew;  or  Arabian  Nights* 
Entertainments,  under  "Abou  Hassam;  or,  The  Sleeper  Awakened." 


SELF-RELIANCE  373 

original  views,  the  lustre  will  be  transferred  from  the  actions 
of  kings  to  those  of  gentlemen. 

The  world  has  been  instructed  by  its  kings,  who  have  so  mag- 
netized the  eyes  of  nations.  It  has  been  taught  by  this  colossal 
symbol  the  mutual  reverence  that  is  due  from  man  to  man. 
The  joyful  loyalty  with  which  men  have  everywhere  suffered 
the  king,  the  noble,  or  the  great  proprietor  to  walk  among 
them  by  a  law  of  his  own,  make  his  own  scale  of  men  and  things 
and  reverse  theirs,  pay  for  benefits  not  with  money  but  with 
honor,  and  represent  the  law  in  his  person,  was  the  hieroglyphic 
by  which  they  obscurely  signified  their  consciousness  of  their 
own  right  and  comeliness,  the  right  of  every  man. 

The  magnetism  which  all  original  action  exerts  is  explained 
when  we  inquire  the  reason  of  self-trust.  Who  is  the  Trustee? 
What  is  the  aboriginal  Self,  on  which  a  universal  reliance  may 
be  grounded?  What  is  the  nature  and  power  of  that  science- 
baffling  star,  without  parallax,  without  calculable  elements, 
which  shoots  a  ray  of  beauty  even  into  trivial  and  impure 
actions,  if  the  least  mark  of  independence  appear  ?  The  inqmry 
leads  us  to  that  source,  at  once  the  essence  of  genius,  of  \^rtue, 
and  of  life,  which  we  call  Spontaneity  or  Instinct.  We  denote 
this  primary  wisdom  as  Intuition,  whilst  all  later  teachings  are 
tuitions.  In  that  deep  force,  the  last  fact  behind  which  analysis 
cannot  go,  all  things  find  their  common  origin.  For  the  sense 
of  being  which  in  calm  hours  rises,  we  know  not  how,  in  the 
soul,  is  not  diverse  from  things,  from  space,  from  light,  from 
time,  from  man,  but  one  with  them  and  proceeds  obviously 
from  the  same  source  whence  their  life  and  being  also  proceed. 
We  first  share  the  life  by  which  things  exist  and  afterwards  see 
them  as  appearances  in  nature  and  forget  that  we  have  shared 
their  cause.  Here  is  the  fountain  of  action  and  of  thought. 
Here  are  the  lungs  of  that  inspiration  which  giveth  man  wisdom 
and  which  cannot  be  denied  without  impiety  and  atheism. 
We  lie  in  the  lap  of  immense  intelHgence,  which  makes  us 
receivers  of  its  truth  and  organs  of  its  activity.  When  we  dis- 
cern justice,  when  we  discern  truth,  we  do  nothing  of  ourselves, 
but  allow  a  passage  to  its  beams.  If  we  ask  whence  this  comes, 
if  we  seek  to  pry  into  the  soul  that  causes,  all  philosophy  is  at 
fault.  Its  presence  or  its  absence  is  all  we  can  affirm.  Every 
man  discriminates  between  the  voluntary  acts  of  his  mind  and 


374  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

his  involuntary  perceptions,  and  knows  that  to  his  involuntary 
perceptions  a  perfect  faith  is  due.  He  may  err  in  the  expression 
of  them,  but  he  knows  that  these  things  are  so,  like  day  and 
night,  not  to  be  disputed.  My  wilful  actions  and  acquisitions 
are  but  roving;  —  the  idlest  reverie,  the  faintest  native  emo- 
tion, command  my  curiosity  and  respect.  Thoughtless  people 
contradict  as  readily  the  statement  of  perceptions  as  of  opin- 
ions, or  rather  much  more  readily;  for  they  do  not  distinguish 
between  perception  and  notion.  They  fancy  that  I  choose  to 
see  this  or  that  thing.  But  perception  is  not  whimsical,  but 
fatal.  If  I  see  a  trait,  my  children  will  see  it  after  me,  and  in 
course  of  time  all  mankind,  —  although  it  may  chance  that  no 
one  has  seen  it  before  me.  For  my  perception  of  it  is  as  much 
a  fact  as  the  sun. 

The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine  spirit  are  so  pure  that 
it  is  profane  to  seek  to  interpose  helps.  It  must  be  that  when 
God  speaketh  he  should  communicate,  not  one  thing,  but 
all  things;  should  fill  the  world  with  his  voice;  should  scatter 
forth  light,  nature,  time,  souls,  from  the  centre  of  the  present 
thought;  and  new  date  and  new  create  the  whole.  Whenever 
a  mind  is  simple  and  receives  a  divine  wisdom,  old  things  pass 
away,  —  means,  teachers,  texts,  temples  fall;  it  lives  now,  and 
absorbs  past  and  future  into  the  present  hour.  All  things  are 
made  sacred  by  relation  to  it,  —  one  as  much  as  another.  All 
things  are  dissolved  to  their  centre  by  their  cause,  and  in  the 
universal  miracle  petty  and  particular  miracles  disappear.  If 
therefore  a  man  claims  to  know  and  speak  of  God  and  carries 
you  backward  to  the  phraseology  of  some  old  mouldered  na- 
tion in  another  country,  in  another  world,  believe  him  not. 
Is  the  acorn  better  than  the  oak  which  is  its  fulness  and  com- 
pletion? Is  the  parent  better  than  the  child  into  whom  he  has 
cast  his  ripened  being?  Whence  then  this  worship  of  the  past? 
The  centuries  are  conspirators  against  the  sanity  and  authority 
of  the  soul.  Time  and  space  are  but  physiological  colors  which 
the  eye  makes,  but  the  soul  is  light:  where  it  is,  is  day;  where  it 
was,  is  night;  and  history  is  an  impertinence  and  an  injury  if  it 
be  anything  more  than  a  cheerful  apologue  or  parable  of  my 
being  and  becoming. 

Man  is  timid  and  apologetic;  he  is  no  longer  upright;  he  dares 
not  say  "I  think,"  ^'I  am,"  but  quotes  some  saint  or  sage. 


SELF-RELIANCE  375 

He  is  ashamed  before  the  blade  of  grass  or  the  blowing  rose. 
These  roses  under  my  window  make  no  reference  to  former 
roses  or  to  better  ones;  they  are  for  what  they  are;  they  exist 
with  God  to-day.  There  is  no  time  to  them.  There  is  simply 
the  rose;  it  is  perfect  in  every  moment  of  its  existence.  Before 
a  leaf -bud  has  burst,  its  whole  life  acts;  in  the  full-blown  flower 
there  is  no  more;  in  the  leafless  root  there  is  no  less.  Its  nature 
is  satisfied  and  it  satisfies  nature  in  all  moments  alike.  But  man 
postpones  or  remembers;  he  does  not  live  in  the  present,  but 
with  reverted  eye  laments  the  past,  or,  heedless  of  the  riches 
that  surround  him,  stands  on  tiptoe  to  foresee  the  future.  He 
cannot  be  happy  and  strong  until  he  too  lives  with  nature  in 
the  present,  above  time. 

This  should  be  plain  enough.  Yet  see  what  strong  intellects 
dare  not  yet  hear  God  himself  unless  he  speak  the  phraseology 
of  I  know  not  what  David,  or  Jeremiah,  or  Paul.  We  shall  not 
always  set  so  great  a  price  on  a  few  texts,  on  a  few  lives.  We 
are  like  children  who  repeat  by  rote  the  sentences  of  grandames 
and  tutors,  and,  as  they  grow  older,  of  the  men  of  talents  and 
character  they  chance  to  see,  —  painfully  recollecting  the  exact 
words  they  spoke;  afterwards,  when  they  come  into  the  point 
of  view  which  those  had  who  uttered  these  sayings,  they  under- 
stand them  and  are  willing  to  let  the  words  go ;  for  at  any  time 
they  can  use  words  as  good  when  occasion  comes.  If  we  live 
truly,  we  shall  see  truly.  It  is  as  easy  for  the  strong  man  to  be 
strong,  as  it  is  for  the  weak  to  be  weak.  When  we  have  new 
perception,  we  shall  gladly  disburden  the  memory  of  its 
hoarded  treasures  as  old  rubbish.  When  a  man  lives  with  God, 
his  voice  shall  be  as  sweet  as  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and  the 
rustle  of  the  corn. 

And  now  at  last  the  highest  truth  on  this  subject  remains 
unsaid;  probably  cannot  be  said;  for  all  that  we  say  is  the  far- 
off  remembering  of  the  intuition.  That  thought  by  what  I  can 
now  nearest  approach  to  say  it,  is  this.  When  good  is  near  you, 
when  you  have  life  in  yourself,  it  is  not  by  any  known  or  accus- 
tomed way;  you  shall  not  discern  the  footprints  of  any  other; 
you  shall  not  see  the  face  of  man;  you  shall  not  hear  any  name; 
—  the  way,  the  thought,  the  good,  shall  be  wholly  strange  and 
new.  It  shall  exclude  example  and  experience.  You  take  the 
way  from  man,  not  to  man.  All  persons  that  ever  existed  are 


376  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

its  forgotten  ministers.  Fear  and  hope  are  alike  beneath  it. 
There  is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  In  the  hour  of  vision  there 
is  nothing  that  can  be  called  gratitude,  nor  properly  joy.  The 
soul  raised  over  passion  beholds  identity  and  eternal  causation, 
perceives  the  self -existence  of  Truth  and  Right,  and  calms  itself 
with  knowing  that  all  things  go  well.  Vast  spaces  of  nature, 
the  Atlantic  Ocean,  the  South  Sea;  long  intervals  of  time,  years, 
centuries,  are  of  no  account.  This  which  I  think  and  feel  under- 
lay every  former  state  of  life  and  circumstances,  as  it  does 
underlie  my  present,  and  what  is  called  life  and  what  is  called 
death. 

Life  only  avails,  not  the  having  lived.  Power  ceases  in  the 
instant  of  repose;  it  resides  in  the  moment  of  transition  from  a 
past  to  a  new  state,  in  the  shooting  of  the  gulf,  in  the  darting 
to  an  aim.  This  one  fact  the  world  hates;  that  the  soul  becomes ; 
for  that  forever  degrades  the  past,  turns  all  riches  to  poverty, 
all  reputation  to  a  shame,  confounds  the  saint  with  the  rogue, 
shoves  Jesus  and  Judas  equally  aside.  Why  then  do  we  prate 
of  self-reliance?  Inasmuch  as  the  soul  is  present  there  will  be 
power  not  confident  but  agent.  To  talk  of  reliance  is  a  poor 
external  way  of  speaking.  Speak  rather  of  that  which  relies 
because  it  works  and  is.  Who  has  more  obedience  than  I  mas- 
ters me,  though  he  should  not  raise  his  finger.  Round  him  I 
must  revolve  by  the  gravitation  of  spirits.  We  fancy  it  rhetoric 
when  we  speak  of  eminent  virtue.  We  do  not  yet  see  that 
virtue  is  Height,  and  that  a  man  or  a  company  of  men,  plastic 
and  permeable  to  principles,  by  the  law  of  nature  must  over- 
power and  ride  all  cities,  nations,  kings,  rich  men,  poets,  who 
are  not. 

This  is  the  ultimate  fact  which  we  so  quickly  reach  on  this, 
as  on  every  topic,  the  resolution  of  all  into  the  ever-blessed 
One.  Self -existence  is  the  attribute  of  the  Supreme  Cause,  and 
it  constitutes  the  measure  of  good  by  the  degree  in  which  it 
enters  into  all  lower  forms.  All  things  real  are  so  by  so  much 
virtue  as  they  contain.  Commerce,  husbandry,  hunting,  whal- 
ing, war,  eloquence,  personal  weight,  are  somewhat,  and  engage 
my  respect  as  examples  of  its  presence  and  impure  action.  I 
see  the  same  law  working  in  nature  for  conservation  and 
growth.  Power  is,  in  nature,  the  essential  measure  of  right. 
Nature  suffers  nothing  to  remain  in  her  kingdoms  which  can- 


SELF-RELIANCE  377 

not  help  itself.  The  genesis  and  maturation  of  a  planet,  its 
poise  and  orbit,  the  bended  tree  recovering  itself  from  the 
strong  wind,  the  vital  resources  of  every  animal  and  vegetable, 
are  demonstrations  of  the  self-sufficing  and  therefore  self- 
relying  soul. 

Thus  all  concentrates:  let  us  not  rove;  let  us  sit  at  home  with 
the  cause.  Let  us  stun  and  astonish  the  intruding  rabble  of 
men  and  books  and  institutions  by  a  simple  declaration  of  the 
divine  fact.  Bid  the  invaders  take  the  shoes  from  off  their  feet, 
for  God  is  here  within.  Let  our  simpHcity  judge  them,  and  our 
docihty  to  our  own  law  demonstrate  the  poverty  of  nature  and 
fortune  beside  our  native  riches. 

But  now  we  are  a  mob.  Man  does  not  stand  in  awe  of  man, 
nor  is  his  genius  admonished  to  stay  at  home,  to  put  itself  in 
communication  with  the  internal  ocean,  but  it  goes  abroad  to 
beg  a  cup  of  water  of  the  urns  of  other  men.  We  must  go  alone. 
I  like  the  silent  church  before  the  service  begins,  better  than 
any  preaching.  How  far  off,  how  cool,  how  chaste  the  persons 
look,  begirt  each  one  with  a  precinct  or  sanctuary!  So  let  us 
always  sit.  WTiy  should  we  assume  the  faults  of  our  friend,  or 
wife,  or  father,  or  child,  because  they  sit  around  our  hearth, 
or  are  said  to  have  the  same  blood?  All  men  have  my  blood  and 
I  all  men's.  Not  for  that  will  I  adopt  their  petulance  or  folly, 
even  to  the  extent  of  being  ashamed  of  it.  But  your  isolation 
must  not  be  mechanical,  but  spiritual,  that  is,  must  be  eleva- 
tion. At  times  the  whole  world  seems  to  be  in  conspiracy  to 
importune  you  with  emphatic  trifles.  Friend,  climate,  child, 
sickness,  fear,  want,  charity,  all  knock  at  once  at  thy  closet 
door  and  say,  —  *'Come  out  unto  us."  But  keep  thy  state; 
come  not  into  their  confusion.  The  power  men  possess  to  annoy 
me  I  give  them  by  a  weak  curiosity.  No  man  can  come  near 
me  but  through  my  act.  "What  we  love  that  we  have,  but  by 
desire  we  bereave  ourselves  of  the  love." 

If  we  cannot  at  once  rise  to  the  sanctities  of  obedience  and 
faith,  let  us  at  least  resist  our  temptations;  let  us  enter  into 
the  state  of  war  and  wake  Thor  and  Woden,  courage  and  con- 
stancy, in  our  Saxon  breasts.  This  is  to  be  done  in  our  smooth 
times  by  speaking  the  truth.  Check  this  lying  hospitality  and 
l>"ing  affection.  Live  no  longer  to  the  expectation  of  these  de- 
ceived and  deceiving  people  with  whom  we  converse.  Say  to 


378       *  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

them,  *'0  father,  O  mother,  O  wife,  O  brother,  O  friend,  I  have 
lived  with  you  after  appearances  hitherto.  Henceforward  I 
am  the  truth's.  Be  it  known  unto  you  that  henceforward  I 
obey  no  law  less  than  the  eternal  law.  I  will  have  no  covenants 
but  proximities.  I  shall  endeavor  to  nourish  my  parents,  to 
support  my  family,  to  be  the  chaste  husband  of  one  wife,  — 
but  these  relations  I  must  fill  after  a  new  and  unprecedented 
way.  I  appeal  from  your  customs.  I  must  be  myself.  I  cannot 
break  myself  any  longer  for  you,  or  you.  If  you  can  love  me  for 
what  I  am,  we  shall  be  the  happier.  If  you  cannot,  I  will  still 
seek  to  deserve  that  you  should.  I  will  not  hide  my  tastes  or 
aversions.  I  will  so  trust  that  what  is  deep  is  holy,  that  I  will 
do  strongly  before  the  sun  and  moon  whatever  inly  rejoices 
me  and  the  heart  appoints.  If  you  are  noble,  I  will  love  you; 
if  you  are  not,  I  will  not  hurt  you  and  myself  by  hypocritical 
attentions.  If  you  are  true,, but  not  in  the  same  truth  with  me, 
cleave  to  your  companions;  I  will  seek  my  own.  I  do  this  not 
selfishly  but  humbly  and  truly.  It  is  alike  your  interest,  and 
mine,  and  all  men's,  however  long  we  have  dwelt  in  lies,  to  Hve 
in  truth.  Does  this  sound  harsh  to-day?  You  will  soon  love 
what  is  dictated  by  your  nature  as  well  as  mine,  and  if  we  fol- 
low the  truth  it  will  bring  us  out  safe  at  last."  —  But  so  may 
you  give  these  friends  pain.  Yes,  but  I  cannot  sell  my  liberty 
and  my  power,  to  save  their  sensibility.  Besides,  all  persons 
have  their  moments  of  reason,  when  they  look  out  into  the 
region  of  absolute  truth;  then  will  they  justify  me  and  do  the 
same  thing. 

The  populace  think  that  your  rejection  of  popular  standards 
is  a  rejection  of  all  standard,  and  mere  antinomianism;  and  the 
bold  sensualist  will  use  the  name  of  philosophy  to  gild  his 
crimes.  But  the  law  of  consciousness  abides.  There  are  two 
confessionals,  in  one  or  the  other  of  which  we  must  be  shriven. 
You  may  fulfil  your  round  of  duties  by  clearing  yourself  in  the 
direct  or  in  the  reflex  way.  Consider  whether  you  have  satisfied 
your  relations  to  father,  mother,  cousin,  neighbor,  town,  cat 
and  dog  —  whether  any  of  these  can  upbraid  you.  But  I  may 
also  neglect  this  reflex  standard  and  absolve  me  to  myself, 
I  have  my  own  stern  claims  and  perfect  circle.  It  denies  the 
name  of  duty  to  many  offices  that  are  called  duties.  But  if 
I  can  discharge  its  debts  it  enables  me  to  dispense  with  the 


SELF-RELIANCE  379 

popular  code.  If  any  one  imagines  that  this  law  is  lax,  let  him 
keep  its  commandment  one  day. 

And  truly  it  demands  something  godlike  in  him  who  has  cast 
off  the  common  motives  of  humanity  and  has  ventured  to 
trust  himself  for  a  taskmaster.  High  be  his  heart,  faithful  his 
will,  clear  his  sight,  that  he  may  in  good  earnest  be  doctrine, 
society,  law,  to  himself,  that  a  simple  purpose  may  be  to  him 
as  strong  as  iron  necessity  is  to  others! 

If  any  man  consider  the  present  aspects  of  what  is  called  by 
distinction  society,  he  will  see  the  need  of  these  ethics.  The 
sinew  and  heart  of  man  seem  to  be  drawn  out,  and  we  are  be- 
come timorous,  desponding  whimperers.  We  are  afraid  of  truth, 
afraid  of  fortune,  afraid  of  death,  and  afraid  of  each  other.  Our 
age  yields  no  great  and  perfect  persons.  We  want  men  and 
women  who  shall  renovate  life  and  our  social  state,  but  we  see 
that  most  natures  are  insolvent,  cannot  satisfy  their  own 
wants,  have  an  ambition  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  practical 
force  and  do  lean  and  beg  day  and  night  continually.  Our 
housekeeping  is  mendicant,  our  arts,  our  occupations,  our 
marriages,  our  religion  we  have  not  chosen,  but  society  has 
chosen  for  us.  We  are  parlor  soldiers.  We  shun  the  rugged 
battle  of  fate,  where  strength  is  bom. 

If  our  young  men  miscarry  in  their  first  enterprises  they  lose 
all  heart.  If  the  young  merchant  fails,  men  say  he  is  ruined. 
If  the  finest  genius  studies  at  one  of  our  colleges  and  is  not 
installed  in  an  office  within  one  year  afterwards  in  the  cities  or 
suburbs  of  Boston  or  New  York,  it  seems  to  his  friends  and  to 
himself  that  he  is  right  in  being  disheartened  and  in  complain- 
ing the  rest  of  his  life.  A  sturdy  lad  from  New  Hampshire  or 
Vermont,  who  in  turn  tries  all  the  professions,  who  teams  it, 
farms  it,  peddles,  keeps  a  school,  preaches,  edits  a  newspaper, 
goes  to  Congress,  buys  a  township,  and  so  forth,  in  successive 
years,  and  always  like  a  cat  falls  on  his  feet,  is  worth  a  hundred 
of  these  city  dolls.  He  walks  abreast  with  his  days  and  feels 
no  shame  in  not  "  stud>ing  a  profession,"  for  he  does  not  post- 
pone his  life,  but  lives  already.  He  has  not  one  chance,  but 
a  hundred  chances.  Let  a  Stoic  open  the  resources  of  man  and 
tell  men  they  are  not  leaning  willows,  but  can  and  must  de- 
tach themselves;  that  with  the  exercise  of  self -trust,  new  powers 
shall  appear;  that  a  man  is  the  word  made  flesh,  born  to  shed 


38o  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

healing  to  the  nations;  that  he  should  be  ashamed  of  our  com- 
passion, and  that  the  moment  he  acts  from  himself,  tossing  the 
laws,  the  books,  idolatries  and  customs  out  of  the  window,  we 
pity  him  no  more  but  thank  and  revere  him ;  —  and  that 
teacher  shall  restore  the  life  of  man  to  splendor  and  make  his 
name  dear  to  all  history. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  a  greater  self-reliance  must  work  a 
revolution  in  all  the  offices  and  relations  of  men;  in  their  reli- 
gion; in  their  education;  in  their  pursuits;  their  modes  of 
living;  their  association;  in  their  property;  in  their  speculative 
views. 

I.  In  what  prayers  do  men  allow  themselves!  ^  That  which 
they  call  a  holy  office  is  not  so  much  as  brave  and  manly. 
Prayer  looks  abroad  and  asks  for  some  foreign  addition  to  come 
through  some  foreign  virtue,  and  loses  itself  in  endless  mazes 
of  natural  and  supernatural,  and  mediatorial  and  miraculous. 
Prayer  that  craves  a  particular  commodity,  anything  less  than 
all  good,  is  vicious.  Prayer  is  the  contemplation  of  the  facts  of 
life  from  the  highest  point  of  view.  It  is  the  soliloquy  of  a  be- 
holding and  jubilant  soul.  It  is  the  spirit  of  God  pronouncing 
his  works  good.  But  prayer  as  a  means  to  effect  a  private  end 
is  meanness  and  theft.  It  supposes  dualism  and  not  unity  in 
nature  and  consciousness.  As  soon  as  the  man  is  at  one  with 
God,  he  will  not  beg.  He  will  then  see  prayer  in  all  action.  The 
prayer  of  the  farmer  kneeling  in  his  field  to  weed  it,  the  prayer 
of  the  rower  kneeling  with  the  stroke  of  his  oar,  are  true  prayers 
heard  throughout  nature,  though  for  cheap  ends.  Caratach, 
in  Fletcher's  Bondtica,  when  admonished  to  inquire  the  mind 
of  the  god  Audate,  replies,  — 

"His  hidden  meaning  lies  in  our  endeavors; 
Our  valors  are  our  best  gods." 

Another  sort  of  false  prayers  are  our  regrets.  Discontent  is 
the  want  of  self-reliance:  it  is  infirmity  of  will.  Regret  calam- 
ities if  you  can  thereby  help  the  sufferer;  if  not,  attend  your 
own  work  and  already  the  evil  begins  to  be  repaired.  Our  sym- 
pathy is  just  as  base.  We  come  to  them  who  weep  fooHshly 
and  sit  down  and  cry  for  company,  instead  of  imparting  to 
them  truth  and  health  in  rough  electric  shocks,  putting  them 
^  In  the  sense  of  "justify  themselves." 


SELF-RELIANCE  381 

once  more  in  communication  with  their  own  reason.  The 
secret  of  fortune  is  joy  in  our  hands.  Welcome  evermore  to 
gods  and  men  is  the  self-helping  man.  For  him  all  doors  are 
flung  wide;  him  all  tongues  greet,  all  honors  crown,  all  eyes 
follow  with  desire.  Our  love  goes  out  to  him  and  embraces  him 
because  he  did  not  need  it.  We  sohcitously  and  apologetically 
caress  and  celebrate  him  because  he  held  on  his  way  and  scorned 
our  disapprobation.  The  gods  love  him  because  men  hated 
him.  *'To  the  persevering  mortal,"  said  Zoroaster,  "the 
blessed  Immortals  are  swift." 

As  men's  prayers  are  a  disease  of  the  will,  so  are  their  creeds 
a  disease  of  the  intellect.  They  say  with  those  foolish  Israel- 
ites, "Let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest  we  die.  Speak  thou,  speak 
any  man  with  us,  and  we  will  obey."  ^  Everywhere  I  am  hin- 
dered of  meeting  God  in  my  brother,  because  he  has  shut  his 
own  temple  doors  and  recites  fables  merely  of  his  brother's,  or 
his  brother's  brother's  God.  Every  new  mind  is  a  new  classifi- 
cation. If  it  prove  a  mind  of  uncommon  activity  and  power, 
a  Locke,  a  Lavoisier, ^  a  Hutton,^  a  Bentham,  a  Fourier,  it 
imposes  its  classification  on-  other  men,  and  lo !  a  new  system ! 
In  proportion  to  the  depth  of  the  thought,  and  so  to  the  num- 
ber of  the  objects  it  touches  and  brings  withir^  reach  of  the 
pupil,  is  his  complacency.  But  chiefly  is  this  apparent  in 
creeds  and  churches,  which  are  also  classifications  of  some 
pKDwerful  mind  acting  on  the  elemental  thought  of  duty  and 
man's  relation  to  the  Highest.  Such  is  Calvinism,  Quakerism, 
Swedenborgism.  The  pupil  takes  the  same  delight  in  subordi- 
nating everything  to  the  new  terminology  as  a  girl  who  has 
just  learned  botany  in  seeing  a  new  earth  and  new  seasons 
thereby.  It  will  happen  for  a  time  that  the  pupil  will  find  his 
intellectual  power  has  grown  by  the  study  of  his  master's  mind. 
But  in  all  unbalanced  minds  the  classification  is  idoHzed,  passes 
for  the  end  and  not  for  a  speedily  exhaustible  means,  so  that 
the  walls  of  the  system  blend  to  their  eye  in  the  remote  horizon 
with  the  walls  of  the  universe;  the  luminaries  of  heaven  seem 
to  them  hung  on  the  arch  their  master  built.    They  cannot 

*  Exodus  XX,  19;  Deuteronomy  v,  25-27. 
2  Antoine  Laurent  Lavoisier  (i  743-1 794),  the  French  chemist. 
'  James  Hutton  (i 726-1 797),  a  Scotch  geologist,  founder  of  the  Plutonian  or 
volcanic  theory. 


382  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

imagine  how  you  aliens  have  any  right  to  see,  —  how  you  can 
see;  ''It  must  be  somehow  that  you  stole  the  light  from  us." 
They  do  not  yet  perceive  that  light,  unsystematic,  indomitable, 
will  break  into  any  cabin,  even  into  theirs.  Let  them  chirp 
awhile  and  call  it  their  own.  If  they  are  honest  and  do  well, 
presently  their  neat  new  pinfold  will  be  too  strait  and  low,  will 
crack,  will  lean,  will  rot  and  vanish,  and  the  immortal  light, 
all  young  and  joyful,  million-orbed,  million-colored,  will  beam 
over  the  universe  as  on  the  first  morning. 

2.  It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  superstition  of 
Travelling,  whose  idols  are  Italy,  England,  Egypt,  retains  its 
fascination  for  all  educated  Americans.  They  who  made  Eng- 
land, Italy,  or  Greece  venerable  in  the  imagination,  did  so  by 
sticking  fast  where  they  were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  In 
manly  hours  we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place.  The  soul  is  no 
traveller;  the  wise  man  stays  at  home,  and  when  his  necessities, 
his  duties,  on  any  occasion  call  him  from  his  house,  or  into 
foreign  lands,  he  is  at  home  still  and  shall  make  men  sensible 
by  the  expression  of  his  countenance  that  he  goes,  the  mission- 
ary of  wisdom  and  virtue,  and  visits  cities  and  men  like  a  sover- 
eign and  not  like  an  interloper  or  a  valet. 

I  have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavigation  of  the 
globe  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of  study,  and  benevolence,  so 
that  the  man  is  first  domesticated,  or  does  not  go  abroad  with 
the  hope  of  finding  somewhat  greater  than  he  knows.  He  who 
travels  to  be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat  which  he  does  not 
carry,  travels  away  from  himself,  and  grows  old  even  in  youth 
among  old  things.  In  Thebes,  in  Palmyra,  his  will  and  mind 
have  become  old  and  dilapidated  as  they.  He  carries  ruins  to 
ruins. 

Travelling  is  a  fooFs  paradise.  Our  first  journeys  discover 
to  us  the  indifference  of  places.  At  home  I  dream  that  at 
Naples,  at  Rome,  I  can  be  intoxicated  with  beauty  and  lose 
my  sadness.  I  pack  my  trunk,  embrace  my  friends,  embark 
on  the  sea  and  at  last  wake  up  in  Naples,  and  there  beside  me 
is  the  stern  fact,  the  sad  self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that  I  fled 
from.  I  seek  the  Vatican  and  the  palaces.  I  affect  to  be  intoxi- 
cated with  sights  and  suggestions,  but  I  am  not  intoxicated. 
My  giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I  go. 

3.  But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  a  symptom  of  a  deeper  un- 


SELF-RELIANCE  383 

soundness  affecting  the  whole  intellectual  action.  The  intellect 
is  vagabond,  and  our  system  of  -education  fosters  restlessness. 
Our  minds  travel  when  our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay  at  home. 
We  imitate;  and  what  is  imitation  but  the  travelHng  of  the 
mind?  Our  houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste;  our  shelves  are 
garnished  with  foreign  ornaments;  our  opinions,  our  tastes,  our 
faculties  lean,  and  follow  the  Past  and  the  Distant.  The  soul 
created  the  arts  wherever  they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his 
own  mind  that  the  artist  sought  his  model.  It  was  an  applica- 
tion of  his  own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be  done  and  the  condi- 
tions to  be  observed.  And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the 
Gothic  model?  Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur  of  thought  and 
quaint  expression  are  as  near  to  us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  Ameri- 
can artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  precise  thing  to  be 
done  by  him,  considering  the  cHmate,  the  soil,  the  length  of  the 
day,  the  wants  of  the  people,  the  habit  and  form  of  the  govern- 
ment, he  will  create  a  house  in  which  all  these  will  find  them- 
selves fitted,  and  taste  and  sentiment  will  be  satisfied  also. 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own  gift  you  can 
present  every  moment  with  the  cumulative  force  of  a  whole 
life's  cultivation;  but  of  the  adopted  talent  of  another  you  have 
only  an  extemporaneous  half  possession.  That  which  each  can 
do  best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach  him.  No  man  yet  knows 
what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person  has  exhibited  it.  Where  is 
the  master  who  could  have  taught  Shakespeare?  Where  is  the 
master  who  could  have  instructed  Franklin,  or  Washington,  or 
Bacon,  or  Newton?  Every  great  man  is  a  unique.  TheScipion- 
ism  of  Scipio  is  precisely  that  part  he  could  not  borrow.  Shake- 
speare will  never  be  made  by  the  study  of  Shakespeare.  Do  that 
which  is  assigned  you,  and  you  cannot  hope  too  much  or  dare 
too  much.  There  is  at  this  moment  for  you  an  utterance  brave 
and  grand  as  that  of  the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias,  or  trowel  of 
the  Egyptians,  or  the  pen  of  Moses  or  Dante,  but  different 
from  all  these.  Nor  possibly  will  the  soul,  all  rich,  all  eloquent, 
with  thousand-cloven  tongue,  deign  to  repeat  itself;  but  if  you 
can  hear  what  these  patriarchs  say,  surely  you  can  reply  to 
them  in  the  same  pitch  of  voice;  for  the  ear  and  the  tongue  are 
two  organs  of  one  nature.  Abide  in  the  simple  and  noble  re- 
gions of  thy  Hfe,  obey  thy  heart,  and  thou  shall  reproduce  the 
Foreworld  again. 


384  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

4.  As  our  Religion,  our  Education,  our  Art  look  abroad,  so 
does  our  spirit  of  society.  All  men  plume  themselves  on  the 
improvement  of  society,  and  no  man  improves. 

Society  never  advances.  It  recedes  as  fast  on  one  side  as  it 
gains  on  the  other.  It  undergoes  continual  changes;  it  is  bar- 
barous, it  is  civilized,  it  is  christianized,  it  is  rich,  it  is  scientific; 
but  this  change  is  not  amelioration.  For  everything  that  is 
given  something  is  taken.  Society  acquires  new  arts  and  loses 
old  instincts.  What  a  contrast  between  the  well-clad,  reading, 
writing,  thinking  American,  with  a  watch,  a  pencil,  and  a  bill 
of  exchange  in  his  pocket,  and  the  naked  New  Zealander,  whose 
property  is  a  club,  a  spear,  a  mat,  and  an  undivided  twentieth 
of  a  shed  to  sleep  under!  But  compare  the  health  of  the  two 
men  and  you  shall  see  that  the  white  man  has  lost  his  abo- 
riginal strength.  If  the  traveller  tell  us  truly,  strike  the  savage 
with  a  broad-axe  and  in  a  day  or  two  the  flesh  shall  unite  and 
heal  as  if  you  struck  the  blow  into  soft  pitch,  and  the  same  blow 
shall  send  the  white  to  his  grave. 

The  civiUzed  man  has  built  a  coach,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  his 
feet.  He  is  supported  on  crutches,  but  lacks  so  much  support 
of  muscle.  He  has  a  fine  Geneva  watch,  but  he  fails  of  the  skill 
to  tell  the  hour  by  the  sun.  A  Greenwich  nautical  almanac  he 
has,  and  so  being  sure  of  the  information  when  he  wants  it,  the 
man  in  the  street  does  not  know  a  star  in  the  sky.  The  solstice 
he  does  not  observe;  the  equinox  he  knows  as  little;  and  the 
whole  bright  calendar  of  the  year  is  without  a  dial  in  his  mind. 
His  note-books  impair  his  memory;  his  libraries  overload  his 
wit ;  the  insurance-ofiice  increases  the  number  of  accidents ;  and 
it  may  be  a  question  whether  machinery  does  not  encumber; 
whether  we  have  not  lost  by  refinement  some  energy,  by  a 
Christianity,  entrenched  in  establishments  and  forms,  some 
vigor  of  wild  virtue.  For  every  Stoic  was  a  Stoic;  but  in  Chris- 
tendom where  is  the  Christian? 

There  is  no  more  deviation  in  the  moral  standard  than  in  the 
standard  of  height  or  bulk.  No  greater  men  are  now  than  ever 
were.  A  singular  equality  may  be  observed  between  the  great 
men  of  the  first  and  of  the  last  ages;  nor  can  all  the  science,  art, 
religion,  and  philosophy  of  the  nineteenth  century  avail  to 
educate  greater  men  than  Plutarch's  heroes,  three  or  four  and 
twenty  centuries  ago.  Not  in  time  is  the  race  progressive. 


SELF-RELIANCE  385 

Phocion,  Socrates,  Anaxagoras,  Diogenes,  are  great  men,  but 
they  leave  no  class.  He  who  is  really  of  their  class  will  not  be 
called  by  their  name,  but  will  be  his  own  man,  and  in  his  turn 
the  founder  of  a  sect.  The  arts  and  inventions  of  each  period 
are  only  its  costume  and  do  not  invigorate  men.  The  harm  of 
the  improved  machinery  may  compensate  its  good.  Hudson 
and  Behring  accomplished  so  much  in  their  fishing-boats  as  to 
astonish  Parry  and  Franklin,  whose  equipment  exhausted  the 
resources  of  science  and  art.  Galileo,  with  an  opera-glass,  dis- 
covered a  more  splendid  series  of  celestial  phenomena  than  any 
one  since.  Columbus  found  the  New  World  in  an  undecked 
boat.  It  is  curious  to  see  the  periodical  disuse  and  perishing  of 
means  and  machinery  which  were  introduced  with  loud  lauda- 
tion a  few  years  or  centuries  before.  The  great  genius  returns 
to  essential  man.  We  reckoned  the  improvements  of  the  art  of 
war  among  the  triumphs  of  science,  and  yet  Napoleon  con- 
quered Europe  by  the  bivouac,  which  consisted  of  falling  back 
on  naked  valor  and  disencumbering  it  of  all  aids.  The  Emperor 
held  it  impossible  to  make  a  perfect  army,  says  Las  Casas, 
"without  abolishing  our  arms,  magazines,  commissaries,  and 
carriages,  until,  in  imitation  of  the  Roman  custom,  the  soldier 
should  receive  his  supply  of  corn,  grind  it  in  his  hand-mill  and 
bake  his  bread  himself." 

Society  is  a  wave.  The  wave  moves  onward,  but  the  water 
of  which  it  is  composed  does  not.  The  same  particle  does  not 
rise  from  the  valley  to  the  ridge.  Its  unity  is  only  phenomenal. 
The  persons  who  make  up  a  nation  to-day,  next  year  die,  and 
their  experience  dies  with  them. 

And  so  the  reliance  on  Property,  including  the  reliance 
on  governments  which  protect  it,  is  the  want  of  self-reliance. 
Men  have  looked  away  from  themselves  and  at  things  so  long 
that  they  have  come  to  esteem  the  religious,  learned,  and  civil 
institutions  as  guards  of  property,  and  they  deprecate  assaults 
on  these,  because  they  feel  them  to  be  assaults  on  property. 
They  measure  their  esteem  of  each  other  by  what  each  has,  and 
not  by  what  each  is.  But  a  cultivated  man  becomes  ashamed 
of  his  property,  out  of  new  respect  for  his  nature.  Especially 
he  hates  what  he  has  if  he  see  that  it  is  accidental,  —  came  to 
him  by  inheritance,  or  gift,  or  crime;  then  he  feels  that  it  is  not 
having;  it  does  not  belong  to  him,  has  no  root  in  him  and  merely 


386  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

lies  there  because  no  revolution  or  no  robber  takes  it  away.  But 
that  which  a  man  is,  does  always  by  necessity  acquire;  and  what 
the  man  acquires,  is  living  property,  which  does  not  wait  the 
beck  of  rulers,  or  mobs,  or  revolutions,  or  fire,  or  storm,  or  bank- 
ruptcies, but  perpetually  renews  itself  wherever  the  man 
breathes.  ''Thy  lot  or  portion  of  life,''  said  the  Caliph  Ali,  "is 
seeking  after  thee;  therefore  be  at  rest  from  seeking  after  it." 
Our  dependence  on  these  foreign  goods  leads  us  to  our  slavish 
respect  for  numbers.  The  political  parties  meet  in  numerous 
conventions;  the  greater  the  concourse  and  with  each  new 
uproar  of  announcement,  The  delegation  from  Essex!  The 
Democrats  from  New  Hampshire!  The  Whigs  of  Maine!  the 
young  patriot  feels  himself  stronger  than  before  by  a  new  thou- 
sand of  eyes  and  arms.  In  like  manner  the  reformers  summon 
conventions  and  vote  and  resolve  in  multitude.  Not  so,  O 
friends!  will  the  God  deign  to  enter  and  inhabit  you,  but  by  a 
method  precisely  the  reverse.  It  is  only  as  a  man  puts  off  all 
foreign  support  and  stands  alone  that  I  see  him  to  be  strong 
and  to  prevail.  He  is  weaker  by  every  recruit  to  his  banner.  Is 
not  a  man  better  than  a  town?  Ask  nothing  of  men,  and,  in 
the  endless  mutation,  thou  only  firm  column  must  presently 
appear  the  upholder  of  all  that  surrounds  thee.  He  who  knows 
that  power  is  inborn,  that  he  is  weak  because  he  has  looked  for 
good  out  of  him  and  elsewhere,  and,  so  perceiving,  throws  him- 
self unhesitatingly  on  this  thought,  instantly  rights  himself, 
stands  in  the  erect  position,  commands  his  limbs,  works  mira- 
cles, just  as  a  man  who  stands  on  his  feet  is  stronger  than  a 
man  who  stands  on  his  head. 

Souse  all  that  is  called  Fortune.  Most  men  gamble  with  her, 
and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as  her  wheel  rolls. ^  But  do  thou 
leave  as  unlawful  these  winnings,  and  deal  with  Cause  and 
Effect,  the  chancellors  of  God.  In  the  Will  work  and  acquire, 
and  thou  hast  chained  the  wheel  of  Chance,  and  shall  sit  here- 
after out  of  fear  from  her  rotations.  A  political  victory,  a  rise 
of  rents,  the  recovery  of  your  sick  or  the  return  of  your  absent 
friend,  or  some  other  favorable  event  raises  your  spirits,  and 
you  think  good  days  are  preparing  for  you.  Do  not  believe  it. 
Nothing  can  bring  you  peace  but  yourself.  Nothing  can  bring 
you  peace  but  the  triumph  of  principles. 

1  The  wheel  was  the  symbol  of  Fortuna,  goddess  of  fortune. 


COMPENSATION  387 


COMPENSATION  1 

The  wings  of  Time  are  black  and  white. 
Pied  with  morning  and  with  night. 
Mountain  tall  and  ocean  deep 
Trembling  balance  duly  keep. 
In  changing  moon,  in  tidal  wave. 
Glows  the  feud  of  Want  and  Have. 
Gauge  of  more  and  less  through  space 
Electric  star  and  pencil  plays. 
The  lonely  Earth  amid  the  balls 
That  hurry  through  the  eternal  halls, 
A  makeweight  flying  to  the  void, 
Supplemental  asteroid. 
Or  compensatory  spark. 
Shoots  across  the  neutral  Dark. 

Man's  the  elm,  and  Wealth  the  vine, 
Stanch  and  strong  the  tendrils  twine: 
Though  the  frail  ringlets  thee  deceive. 
None  from  its  stock  that  vine  can  reave. 
Fear  not,  then,  thou  child  infirm, 
There's  no  god  dare  wrong  a  worm. 
Laurel  crowns  cleave  to  deserts 
And  power  to  him  who  power  exerts; 
Hast  not  thy  share?  On  winged  feet, 
Lo!  it  rushes  thee  to  meet; 
And  all  that  Nature  made  thy  own. 
Floating  in  air  or  pent  in  stone, 
Will  rive  the  hills  and  swim  the  sea 
And,  like  thy  shadow,  follow  thee. 

Ever  since  I  was  a  boy  I  have  wished  to  write  a  discourse  on 
Compensation;  for  it  seemed  to  me  when  very  young  that  on 
this  subject  life  was  ahead  of  theology  and  the  people  knew 
more  than  the  preachers  taught.  The  documents  too  from 
which  the  doctrine  is  to  be  drawn,  charmed  my  fancy  by  their 
endless  variety,  and  lay  always  before  me,  even  in  sleep;  for 
they  are  the  tools  in  our  hands,  the  bread  in  our  basket,  the 
transactions  of  the  street,  the  farm  and  the  dwelling-house; 
greetings,  relations,  debts  and  credits,  the  influence  of  charac- 
ter, the  nature  and  endowment  of  all  men.  It  seemed  to  me 
also  that  in  it  might  be  shown  men  a  ray  of  divinity,  the  present 
action  of  the  soul  of  this  world,  clean  from  all  vestige  of  tradi- 
tion; and  so  the  heart  of  man  might  be  bathed  by  an  inundation 
of  eternal  love,  conversing  with  that  which  he  knows  was  al- 
ways and  always  must  be,  because  it  really  is  now.  It  appeared 
moreover  that  if  this  doctrine  could  be  stated  in  terms  with  any 
resemblance  to  those  bright  intuitions  in  which  this  truth  is 
sometimes  revealed  to  us,  it  would  be  a  star  in  many  dark 
*  Essays  J  First  Series. 


388  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

hours  and  crooked  passages  in  our  journey,  that  would  not 
suffer  us  to  lose  our  way. 

I  was  lately  confirmed  in  these  desires  by  hearing  a  sermon  at 
church.  The  preacher,  a  man  esteemed  for  his  orthodoxy,  un- 
folded in  the  ordinary  manner  the  doctrine  of  the  Last  Judg- 
ment. He  assumed  that  judgment  is  not  executed  in  this 
world;  that  the  wicked  are  successful;  that  the  good  are  miser- 
able; and  then  urged  from  reason  and  from  Scripture  a  compen- 
sation to  be  made  to  both  parties  in  the  next  life.  No  offence 
appeared  to  be  taken  by  the  congregation  at  this  doctrine. 
As  far  as  I  could  observe  when  the  meeting  broke  up  they 
separated  without  remark  on  the  sermon. 

Yet  what  was  the  import  of  this  teaching?  What  did  the 
preacher  mean  by  saying  that  the  good  are  miserable  in  the 
present  life?  Was  it  that  houses  and  lands,  offices,  wine,  horses, 
dress,  luxury,  are  had  by  unprincipled  men,  whilst  the  saints 
are  poor  and  despised ;  and  that  a  compensation  is  to  be  made 
to  these  last  hereafter,  by  giving  them  the  like  gratifications 
another  day,  —  bank-stock  and  doubloons,  venison  and  cham- 
pagne? This  must  be  the  compensation  intended;  for  what 
else?  Is  it  that  they  are  to  have  leave  to  pray  and  praise?  to 
love  and  serve  men?  Why,  that  they  can  do  now.  The  legiti- 
mate inference,  the  disciple  would  draw  was,  —  ^^  We  are  to  have 
such  a  good  time  as  the  sinners  have  now";  —  or,  to  push  it  to 
its  extreme  import,  —  ^' You  sin  now,  we  shall  sin  by  and  by; 
we  would  sin  now,  if  we  could;  not  being  successful  we  expect 
our  revenge  to-morrow. '* 

The  fallacy  lay  in  the  immense  concession  that  the  bad  are 
successful;  that  justice  is  not  done  now.  The  blindness  of  the 
preacher  consisted  in  deferring  to  the  base  estimate  of  the  mar- 
ket of  what  constitutes  a  manly  success,  instead  of  confronting 
and  convicting  the  world  from  the  truth ;  announcing  the  pres- 
ence of  the  soul;  the  omnipotence  of  the  will;  and  so  establishing 
the  standard  of  good  and  ill,  of  success  and  falsehood. 

I  find  a  similar  base  tone  in  the  popular  religious  works  of 
the  day  and  the  same  doctrines  assumed  by  the  literary  men 
when  occasionally  they  treat  the  related  topics.  I  think  that 
our  popular  theology  has  gained  in  decorum,  and  not  in  prin- 
ciple, over  the  superstitions  it  has  displaced.  But  men  are  bet- 
ter than  their  theology.  Their  daily  life  gives  it  the  lie.  Every 


COMPENSATION  389 

ingenuous  and  aspiring  soul  leaves  the  doctrine  behind  him  in 
his  own  experience,  and  all  men  feel  sometimes  the  falsehood 
which  they  cannot  demonstrate.  For  men  are  wiser  than  they 
know.  That  which  they  hear  in  schools  and  pulpits  without 
afterthought,  if  said  in  conversation  would  probably  be  ques- 
tioned in  silence.  If  a  man  dogmatize  in  a  mixed  company 
on  Providence  and  the  divine  laws,  he  is  answered  by  a  silence 
which  conveys  well  enough  to  an  observer  the  dissatisfaction  of 
the  hearer,  but  his  incapacity  to  make  his  own  statement. 

I  shall  attempt  in  this  and  the  following  chapter  ^  to  record 
some  facts  that  indicate  the  path  of  the  law  of  Compensation; 
happy  beyond  my  expectation  if  I  shall  truly  draw  the  smallest 
arc  of  this  circle. 

Polarity,  or  action  and  reaction,  we  meet  in  every  part  of  na- 
ture; in  darkness  and  light;  in  heat  and  cold;  in  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  w^aters ;  in  male  and  female ;  in  the  inspiration  and  expi- 
ration of  plants  and  animals;  in  the  equation  of  quantity  and 
quality  in  the  fluids  of  the  animal  body;  in  the  systole  and  dias- 
tole of  the  heart;  in  the  undulations  of  fluids  and  of  sound;  in 
the  centrifugal  and  centripetal  gravity;  in  electricity,  galva- 
nism, and  chemical  affinity.  Superinduce  magnetism  atone  end 
of  a  needle,  the  opposite  magnetism  takes  place  at  the  other 
end.  If  the  south  attracts,  the  north  repels.  To  empty  here, 
you  must  condense  there.  An  inevitable  dualism  bisects  na- 
ture, so  that  each  thing  is  a  half,  and  suggests  another  thing 
to  make  it  w^hole;  as,  spirit,  matter;  man,  woman;  odd,  even; 
subjective,  objective;  in,  out;  upper,  under;  motion,  rest;  yea, 
nay. 

Whilst  the  world  is  thus  dual,  so  is  every  one  of  its  parts. 
The  entire  system  of  things  gets  represented  in  every  particle. 
There  is  somewhat  that  resembles  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea, 
day  and  night,  man  and  woman,  in  a  single  needle  of  the  pine, 
in  a  kernel  of  com,  in  each  individual  of  every  animal  tribe. 
The  reaction,  so  grand  in  the  elements,  is  repeated  within  these 
small  boundaries.  For  example,  in  the  animal  kingdom  the 
physiologist  has  observed  that  no  creatures  are  favorites,  but 
a  certain  compensation  balances  every  gift  and  every  defect. 
A  surplusage  given  to  one  part  is  paid  out  of  a  reduction  from 
1  "Spiritual  Laws." 


390  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

another  part  of  the  same  creature.   If  the  head  and  neck  are 
enlarged,  the  trunk  and  extremities  are  cut  short. 

The  theory  of  the  mechanic  forces  is  another  example.  What 
we  gain  in  power  is  lost  in  time,  and  the  converse.  The  periodic 
or  compensating  errors  of  the  planets  is  another  instance.  The 
influences  of  climate  and  soil  in  political  history  is  another. 
The  cold  climate  invigorates.  The  barren  soil  does  not  breed 
fevers,  crocodiles,  tigers,  or  scorpions. 

The  same  dualism  underlies  the  nature  and  condition  of  man. 
Every  excess  causes  a  defect;  every  defect  an  excess.  Every 
sweet  hath  its  sour;  every  evil  its  good.  Every  faculty  which  is 
a  receiver  of  pleasure  has  an  equal  penalty  put  on  its  abuse. 
It  is  to  answer  for  its  moderation  with  its  life.  For  every  grain 
of  wit  there  is  a  grain  of  folly.  For  everything  you  have  missed, 
you  have  gained  something  else;  and  for  everything  you  gain, 
you  lose  something.  If  riches  increase,  they  are  increased  that 
lise  them.  If  the  gatherer  gathers  too  much.  Nature  takes  out 
of  the  man  what  she  puts  into  his  chest;  swells  the  estate,  but 
kills  the  owner.  Nature  hates  monopolies  and  exceptions.  The 
waves  of  the  sea  do  not  more  speedily  seek  a  level  from  their 
loftiest  tossing  than  the  varieties  of  condition  tend  to  equalize 
themselves.  There  is  always  some  levelling  circumstance  that 
puts  down  the  overbearing,  the  strong,  the  rich,  the  fortunate, 
substantially  on  the  same  ground  with  all  others.  Is  a  man  too 
strong  and  fierce  for  society  and  by  temper  and  position  a  bad 
citizen,  —  a  morose  ruffian,  with  a  dash  of  the  pirate  in  him?  — 
Nature  sends  him  a  troop  of  pretty  sons  and  daughters  who  are 
getting  along  in  the  dame's  classes  at  the  village  school,  and  love 
and  fear  for  them  smooths  his  grim  scowl  to  courtesy.  Thus  she 
contrives  to  intenerate  the  granite  and  felspar,  takes  the  boar 
out  and  puts  the  lamb  in  and  keeps  her  balance  true. 

The  farmer  imagines  power  and  place  are  fine  things.  But 
the  President  has  paid  dear  for  his  White  House.  It  has  com- 
monly cost  him  all  his  peace,  and  the  best  of  his  manly  attri- 
butes. To  preserve  for  a  short  time  so  conspicuous  an  appear- 
ance before  the  world,  he  is  content  to  eat  dust  before  the  real 
masters  who  stand  erect  behind  the  throne.  Or  do  men  desire 
the  more  substantial  and  permanent  grandeur  of  genius? 
Neither  has  this  an  immunity.  He  who  by  force  of  will  or  of 
thought  is  great  and  overlooks  thousands,  has  the  charges  of 


COMPENSATION  391 

that  eminence.  With  every  influx  of  light  comes  new  danger. 
Has  he  light?  he  must  bear  witness  to  the  light,  and  always 
outrun  that  sympathy  which  gives  him  such  keen  satisfaction, 
by  his  fideUty  to  new  revelations  of  the  incessant  soul.  He 
must  hate  father  and  mother,  wife  and  child.  Has  he  all  that 
the  world  loves  and  admires  and  covets?  —  he  must  cast  be- 
hind him  their  admiration  and  affict  them  by  faithfulness 
to  his  truth  and  become  a  byword  and  a  hissing. 

This  law  writes  the  laws  of  cities  and  nations.  It  is  in  vain 
to  build  or  plot  or  combine  against  it.  Things  refuse  to  be  mis- 
managed long.  Res  nohmt  diu  male  administrari}  Though  no 
checks  to  a  new  evil  appear,  the  checks  exist,  and  will  appear. 
If  the  government  is  cruel,  the  governor's  Ufe  is  not  safe.  If  you 
tax  too  high,  the  revenue  will  yield  nothing.  If  you  make  the 
criminal  code  sanguinary,  juries  will  not  convict.  If  the  law  is 
too  mild,  private  vengeance  comes  in.  If  the  government  is  a 
terrific  democracy,  the  pressure  is  resisted  by  an  over-charge  of 
energy  in  the  citizen,  and  life  glows  with  a  fiercer  flame.  The 
true  life  and  satisfactions  of  man  seem  to  elude  the  utmost 
rigors  or  felicities  of  condition  and  to  establish  themselves  with 
great  indifferency  under  all  varieties  of  circumstances.  Under 
all  governments  the  influence  of  character  remains  the  same,  — 
in  Turkey  and  in  New  England  about  alike.  Under  the  prime- 
val despots  of  Egypt,  history  honestly  confesses  that  man  must 
have  been  as  free  as  culture  could  make  him. 

These  appearances  indicate  the  fact  that  the  universe  is 
represented  in  every  one  of  its  particles.  Everything  in  nature 
contains  all  the  powers  of  nature.  Everything  is  made  of  one 
hidden  stuff ;  as  the  naturalist  sees  one  type  under  every  meta- 
morphosis, and  regards  a  horse  as  a  running  man,  a  fish  as  a 
swimming  man,  a  bird  as  a  flying  man,  a  tree  as  a  rooted  man. 
Each  new  form  repeats  not  only  the  main  character  of  the  type, 
but  part  for  part  all  the  details,  all  the  aims,  furtherances,  hin- 
drances, energies,  and  whole  system  of  every  other.  Every 
occupation,  trade,  art,  transaction,  is  a  compend  of  the  world 
and  a  correlative  of  every  other.  Each  one  is  an  entire  emblem 
of  human  life;  of  its  good  and  ill,  its  trials,  its  enemies,  its 
course  and  its  end.  And  each  one  must  somehow  accommodate 
the  whole  man  and  recite  all  his  destiny. 

*  Translated  in  the  previous  sentence. 


392  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

The  world  globes  itself  in  a  drop  of  dew.  The  microscope 
cannot  find  the  animalcule  which  is  less  perfect  for  being  little. 
Eyes,  ears,  taste,  smell,  motion,  resistance,  appetite,  and  organs 
of  reproduction  that  take  hold  on  eternity,  —  all  find  room  to 
consist  in  the  small  creature.  So  do  we  put  our  life  into  every 
act.  The  true  doctrine  of  omnipresence  is  that  God  reappears 
with  all  his  parts  in  every  moss  and  cobweb.  The  value  of  the 
universe  contrives  to  throw  itself  into  every  point.  If  the  good 
is  there,  so  is  the  evil;  if  the  affinity,  so  the  repulsion;  if  the  force, 
so  the  limitation. 

Thus  is  the  universe  alive.  All  things  are  moral.  That  soul 
which  within  us  is  a  sentiment,  outside  of  us  is  a  law.  We  feel 
its  inspiration;  but  there  in  history  we  can  see  its  fatal  strength. 
/'It  is  in  the  world,  and  the  world  was  made  by  it."  Justice  is 
not  postponed.  A  perfect  equity  adjusts  its  balance  in  all  parts 
of  life.  *Ael  r^ap  ev  irCirTovcnv  ol  Aco<;  kv^ol^^  —  The  dice  of 
God  are  always  loaded.  The  world  looks  like  a  multiplication- 
table,  or  a  mathematical  equation,  which,  turn  it  how  you  will, 
balances  itself.  Take  what  figure  you  will,  its  exact  value,  nor 
more  nor  less,  still  returns  to  you.  Every  secret  is  told,  every 
crime  is  punished,  every  virtue  rewarded,  every  wrong  re- 
dressed, in  silence  and  certainty.  What  we  call  retribution  is 
the  universal  necessity  by  which  the  whole  appears  wherever 
a  part  appears.  If  you  see  smoke,  there  must  be  fire.  If  you 
see  a  hand  or  a  Hmb,  you  know  that  the  trunk  to  which  it 
belongs  is  there  behind. 

Every  act  rewards  itself,  or  in  other  words  integrates  itself, 
in  a  twofold  manner;  first  in  the  thing,  or  in  real  nature;  and 
secondly  in  the  circumstance,  or  in  apparent  nature.  Men  call 
the  circumstance  the  retribution.  The  causal  retribution  is  in 
the  thing  and  is  seen  by  the  soul.  The  retribution  in  the  circum- 
stance is  seen  by  the  understanding ;  it  is  inseparable  from  the 
thing,  but  is  often  spread  over  a  long  time  and  so  does  not  be- 
come distinct  until  after  many  years.  The  specific  stripes  may 
follow  late  after  the  offence,  but  they  follow  because  they  ac- 
company it.  Crime  and  punishment  grow  out  of  one  stem. 
Punishment  is  a  fruit  that  unsuspected  ripens  within  the  flower 
of  the  pleasure  which  concealed  it.  Cause  and  effect,  means  and 
ends,  seed  and  fruit,  cannot  be  severed;  for  the  effect  already 
*  Sophocles,  a  "Fragment"  from  a  lost  drama;  translated  in  the  next  phrase. 


COMPENSATION  393 

blooms  in  the  cause,  the  6nd  preexists  in  the  means,  the  fruit 
in  the  seed. 

Wliilst  thus  the  world  will  be  whole  and  refuses  to  be  dis- 
parted, we  seek  to  act  partially,  to  sunder,  to  appropriate;  for 
example,  —  to  gratify  the  senses  we  sever  the  pleasure  of  the 
senses  from  the  needs  of  the  character.  The  ingenuity  of  man 
has  always  been  dedicated  to  the  solution  of  one  problem,  — 
how  to  detach  the  sensual  sweet,  the  sensual  strong,  the  sensual 
bright,  etc.,  from  the  moral  sweet,  the  moral  deep,  the  moral 
fair;  that  is,  again,  to  contrive  to  cut  clean  ofE  this  upper 
surface  so  thin  as  to  leave  it  bottomless;  to  get  a  one  end, 
without  an  other  end.  The  soul  says,  "Eat";  the  body  would 
feast.  The  soul  says,  "The  man  and  woman  shall  be  one 
flesh  and  one  soul";  the  body  would  join  the  flesh  only. 
The  soul  says,  "Have  dominion  over  all  things  to  the  ends 
of  \drtue";  the  body  would  have  the  power  over  things  to  its 
own  ends. 

The  soul  strives  amain  to  live  and  work  through  all  things. 
It  would  be  the  only  fact.  All  things  shall  be  added  unto  it,  — 
power,  pleasure,  knowledge,  beauty.  The  particular  man  aims 
to  be  somebody;  to  set  up  for  himseK;  to  truck  and  higgle  for  a 
private  good;  and,  in  particulars,  to  ride  that  he  may  ride;  to 
dress  that  he  may  be  dressed;  to  eat  that  he  may  eat;  and  to 
govern,  that  he  may  be  seen.  Men  seek  to  be  great;  they  would 
have  offices,  wealth,  power,  and  fame.  They  think  that  to  be 
great  is  to  possess  one  side  of  nature,  —  the  sweet,  without  the 
other  side,  the  bitter. 

This  dividing  and  detaching  is  steadily  counteracted.  Up  to 
this  day  it  must  be  owned  no  projector  has  had  the  smallest 
success.  The  parted  water  reunites  behind  our  hand.  Pleas- 
ure is  taken  out  of  pleasant  things,  profit  out  of  profitable 
things,  power  out  of  strong  things,  as  soon  as  we  seek  to  sepa- 
rate them  from  the  whole.  We  can  no  more  halve  things  and  get 
the  sensual  good,  by  itself,  than  we  can  get  an  inside  that  shall 
have  no  outside,  or  a  light  without  a  shadow.  "Drive  out 
Nature  with  a  fork,  she  comes  running  back." 

Life  invests  itself  with  inevitable  conditions,  which  the  un- 
wise seek  to  dodge,  which  one  and  another  brags  that  he  does 
not  know,  that  they  do  not  touch  him;  —  but  the  brag  is  on  his 
lips,  the  conditions  are  in  his  soul.   If  he  escapes  them  in  one 


394  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

part  they  attack  him  in  another  more  vital  part.  If  he  has  es- 
caped them  in  form  and  in  the  appearance,  it  is  because  he  has 
resisted  his  life  and  fled  from  himself,  and  the  retribution  is  so 
much  death.  So  signal  is  the  failure  of  all  attempts  to  make 
this  separation  of  the  good  from  the  tax,  that  the  experiment 
would  not  be  tried,  —  since  to  try  it  is  to  be  mad,  —  but  for  the 
circumstance  that  when  the  disease  begins  in  the  will,  of  rebel- 
lion and  separation,  the  intellect  is  at  once  infected,  so  that  the 
man  ceases  to  see  God  whole  in  each  object,  but  is  able  to  see 
the  sensual  allurement  of  an  object  and  not  see  the  sensual 
hurt;  he  sees  the  mermaid's  head  but  not  the  dragon's  tail,  and 
thinks  he  can  cut  off  that  which  he  would  have  from  that  which 
he  would  not  have.  "How  secret  art  thou  who  dwellest  in  the 
highest  heavens  in  silence,  0  thou  only  great  God,  sprinkling 
with  an  unwearied  providence  certain  penal  blindnesses  upon 
such  as  have  unbridled  desires!" 

The  human  soul  is  true  to  these  facts  in  the  painting  of 
fable,  of  history,  of  law,  of  proverbs,  of  conversation.  It  finds 
a  tongue  in  literature  unawares.  Thus  the  Greeks  called  Jupi- 
ter, Supreme  Mind;  but  having  traditionally  ascribed  to  him 
many  base  actions,  they  involuntarily  made  amends  to  reason 
by  tying  up  the  hands  of  so  bad  a  god.  He  is  made  as  helpless 
as  a  king  of  England.  Prometheus  knows  one  secret  which 
Jove  must  bargain  for;  Minerva,  another.  He  cannot  get  his 
own  thunders;  Minerva  keeps  the  key  of  them:  — 

"Of  all  the  gods,  I  only  know  the  keys 
That  ope  the  solid  doors  within  whose  vaults 
His  thunders  sleep." 

A  plain  confession  of  the  in-working  of  the  All  and  of  its  moral 
aim.  The  Indian  mythology  ends  in  the  same  ethics;  and  it 
would  seem  impossible  for  any  fable  to  be  invented  and  get  any 
currency  which  was  not  moral.  Aurora  forgot  to  ask  youth  for 
her  lover,  and  though  Tithonus  is  immortal,  he  is  old.  Achilles 
is  not  quite  invulnerable;  the  sacred  waters  did  not  wash  the 
heel  by  which  Thetis  held  him.  Siegfried,  in  the  Nibelungen, 
is  not  quite  immortal,  for  a  leaf  fell  on  his  back  whilst  he  was 
bathing  in  the  dragon's  blood,  and  that  spot  which  it  covered 
is  mortal.  And  so  it  must  be.  There  is  a  crack  in  everything 
God  has  made.  It  would  seem  there  is  always  this  vindictive 
circumstance  steahng  in  at  unawares  even  into  the  wild  poesy  ^ 


COMPENSATION  395 

in  which  the  human  fancy  attempted  to  make  bold  holiday 
and  to  shake  itself  free  of  the  old  laws,  —  this  back-stroke, 
this  kick  of  the  gun,  certifying  that  the  law  is  fatal;  that  in 
nature  nothing  can  be  given,  all  things  are  sold. 

This  is  that  ancient  doctrine  of  Nemesis,  who  keeps  watch 
in  the  universe  and  lets  no  ofifence  go  unchastized.  The  Furies, 
they  said,  are  attendants  6n  justice,  and  if  the  sun  in  heaven 
should  transgress  his  path  they  would  punish  him.  The  poets 
related  that  stone  walls  and  iron  swords  and  leathern  thongs 
had  an  occult  s>Tapathy  with  the  wrongs  of  their  owners;  that 
the  belt  which  Ajax  gave  Hector  dragged  the  Trojan  hero  over 
the  field  at  the  wheels  of  the  car  of  Achilles,  and  the  sword 
which  Hector  gave  Ajax  was  that  on  whose  point  Ajax  fell. 
They  recorded  that  when  the  Thasians  erected  a  statue  to 
Theagenes,  a  victor  in  the  games,  one  of  his  rivals  went  to  it  by 
night  and  endeavored  to  throw  it  down  by  repeated  blows,  until 
at  last  he  moved  it  from  its  pedestal  and  was  crushed  to  death 
beneath  its  fall. 

This  voice  of  fable  has  in  it  somewhat  divine.  It  came  from 
thought  above  the  will  of  the  writer.  That  is  the  best  part  of 
each  writer  which  has  nothing  private  in  it;  that  which  he  does 
not  know;  that  which  flowed  out  of  his  constitution  and  not 
from  his  too  active  invention;  that  which  in  the  study  of  a  single 
artist  you  might  not  easily  find,  but  in  the  study  of  many  you 
would  abstract  as  the  spirit  of  them  all.  Phidias  it  is  not,  but 
the  work  of  man  in  that  early  Hellenic  world  that  I  would 
know.  The  name  and  circumstance  of  Phidias,  however  con- 
venient for  history,  embarrass  when  we  come  to  the  highest 
criticism.  We  are  to  see  that  which  man  was  tending  to  do  in 
a  given  period,  and  was  hindered,  or,  if  you  will,  modified  in 
doing,  by  the  interfering  volitions  of  Phidias,  of  Dante,  of 
Shakespeare,  the  organ  whereby  man  at  the  moment  wTought. 

Still  more  striking  is  the  expression  of  this  fact  in  the  prov- 
erbs of  all  nations,  which  are  always  the  literature  of  reason, 
or  the  statements  of  an  absolute  truth  without  qualification. 
Proverbs,  like  the  sacred  books  of  each  nation,  are  the  sanctu- 
ary of  the  intuitions.  That  which  the  droning  world,  chained 
to  appearances,  will  not  allow  the  realist  to  say  in  his  own 
words,  it  will  suffer  him  to  say  in  proverbs  w^ithout  contradic- 
tion. And  his  law  of  laws,  which  the  pulpit,  the  senate,  and  the 


396  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

college  deny,  is  hourly  preached  in  all  markets  and  workshops 
by  flights  of  proverbs,  whose  teaching  is  as  true  and  as  omni- 
present as  that  of  birds  and  flies. 

All  things  are  double,  one  against  another.  —  Tit  for  tat; 
an  eye  for  an  eye;  a  tooth  for  a  tooth;  blood  for  blood;  measure 
for  measure;  love  for  love.  —  Give,  and  it  shall  be  given  you.  — 
He  that  watereth  shall  be  watered  himself.  —  What  will  you 
have?  quoth  God;  pay  for  it  and  take  it.  —  Nothing  venture, 
nothing  have.  —  Thou  shalt  be  paid  exactly  for  what  thou  hast 
done,  no  more,  no  less.  —  Who  doth  not  work  shall  not  eat.  — 
Harm  watch,  harm  catch.  —  Curses  always  recoil  on  the  head 
of  him  who  imprecates  them.  — If  you  put  a  chain  around  the 
neck  of  a  slave,  the  other  end  fastens  itself  around  your  own.  — 
Bad  counsel  confounds  the  adviser.  —  The  Devil  is  an  ass. 

It  is  thus  written,  because  it  is  thus  in  life.  Our  action  is 
overmastered  and  characterized  above  our  will  by  the  law  of 
nature.  We  aim  at  a  petty  end  quite  aside  from  the  public 
good,  but  our  act  arranges  itself  by  irresistible  magnetism  in  a 
line  with  the  poles  of  the  world. 

A  man  cannot  speak  but  he  judges  himself.  With  his  will  or 
against  his  will  he  draws  his  portrait  to  the  eye  of  his  compan- 
ions iDy  every  word.  Every  opinion  reacts  on  him  who  utters  it. 
It  is  a  thread-ball  thrown  at  a  mark,  but  the  other  end  remains 
in  the  thrower's  bag.  Or  rather  it  is  a  harpoon  hurled  at  the 
whale,  unwinding,  as  it  flies,  a  coil  of  cord  in  the  boat,  and,  if 
the  harpoon  is  not  good,  or  not  well  thrown,  it  will  go  nigh  to 
cut  the  steersman  in  twain  or  to  sink  the  boat. 

You  cannot  do  wrong  without  suffering  wrong.  "No  man 
had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him,"  said 
Burke.  The  exclusive  in  fashionable  life  does  not  see  that  he 
excludes  himself  from  enjoyment,  in  the  attempt  to  appropri- 
ate it.  The  exclusionist  in  religion  does  not  see  that  he  shuts 
the  door  of  heaven  on  himself,  in  striving  to  shut  out  others. 
Treat  men  as  pawns  and  ninepins  and  you  shall  suffer  as  well 
as  they.  If  you  leave  out  their  heart,  you  shall  lose  your  own. 
The  senses  would  make  things  of  all  persons;  of  women,  of 
children,  of  the  poor.  The  vulgar  proverb,  ''I  will  get  it  from 
his  purse  or  get  it  from  his  skin,"  is  sound  philosophy. 

All  infractions  of  love  and  equity  in  our  social  relations  are 
speedily  punished.  They  are  punished  by  fear.  Whilst  I  stand 


COMPENSATION  397 

in  simple  relations  to  my  fellowman,  I  have  no  displeasure  in 
meeting  him.  We  meet  as  water  meets  water,  or  as  two  cur- 
rents of  air  mix,  with  perfect  diffusion  and  interpenetration  of 
nature.  But  as  soon  as  there  is  any  departure  from  simplicity 
and  attempt  at  halfness,  or  good  for  me  that  is  not  good  for 
him,  my  neighbor  feels  the  wrong;  he  shrinks  from  me  as  far  as 
I  have  shrunk  from  him;  his  eyes  no  longer  seek  mine;  there  is 
war  between  us;  there  is  hate  in  him  and  fear  in  me. 

All  the  old  abuses  in  society,  universal  and  particular,  all 
unjust  accumulations  of  property  and  power,  are  avenged  in 
the  same  manner.  Fear  is  an  instructor  of  great  sagacity  and 
the  herald  of  all  revolutions.  One  thing  he  teaches,  that  there 
is  rottenness  where  he  appears.  He  is  a  carrion  crow,  and 
though  you  see  not  well  what  he  hovers  for,  there  is  death 
somewhere.  Our  property  is  timid,  our  laws  are  timid,  our  cul- 
tivated classes  are  timid.  Fear  for  ages  has  boded  and  mowed 
and  gibbered  over  government  and  property.  That  obscene 
bird  is  not  there  for  nothing.  He  indicates  great  wrongs  which 
must  be  revised. 

Of  the  like  nature  is  that  expectation  of  change  which  in- 
stantly follows  the  suspension  of  our  voluntary  activity.  The 
terror  of  cloudless  noon,  the  emerald  of  Poly  crates,^  the  awe 
of  prosperity,  the  instinct  which  leads  every  generous  soul  to 
impose  on  itself  tasks  of  a  noble  asceticism  and  vicarious  virtue, 
are  the  tremblings  of  the  balance  of  justice  through  the  heart 
and  mind  of  man. 

Experienced  men  of  the  world  know  very  well  that  it  is  best 
to  pay  scot  and  lot  as  they  go  along,  and  that  a  man  often  pays 
dear  for  a  small  frugality.  The  borrower  runs  in  his  own  debt. 
Has  a  man  gained  anything  who  has  received  a  hundred  favors 
and  rendered  none?  Has  he  gained  by  borrowing,  through  indo- 
lence or  cunning,  his  neighbor's  wares,  or  horses,  or  money? 
There  arises  on  the  deed  the  instant  acknowledgment  of  bene- 
fit on  the  one  part  and  of  debt  on  the  other;  that  is,  of  superi- 
ority and  inferiority.  The  transaction  remains  in  the  memory 
of  himself  and  his  neighbor;  and  every  new  transaction  alters 
according  to  its  nature  their  relation  to  each  other.  He  may 

*  Polycrates,  fearing  the  fate  that  befalls  him  who  enjo)rs  continuous  pros- 
perity, sacrifices  the  object  that  he  values  above  aU  else,  —  his  emerald  ring. 
Disaster  nevertheless  overtakes  him. 


398  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

soon  come  to  see  that  he  had  better  have  broken  his  own  bones 
than  to  have  ridden  in  his  neighbor's  coach,  and  that  "the 
highest  price  he  can  pay  for  a  thing  is  to  ask  for  it."  ^ 

A  wise  man  will  extend  this  lesson  to  all  parts  of  life,  and 
know  that  it  is  the  part  of  prudence  to  face  every  claimant  and 
pay  every  just  demand  on  your  time,  your  talents,  or  your 
heart.  Always  pay;  for  first  or  last  you  must  pay  your  entire 
debt.  Persons  and  events  may  stand  for  a  time  between  you 
and  justice,  but  it  is  only  a  postponement.  You  must  pay  at 
last  your  own  debt.  If  you  are  wise  you  will  dread  a  prosperity 
which  only  loads  you  with  more.  Benefit  is  the  end  of  nature. 
But  for  every  benefit  which  you  receive,  a  tax  is  levied.  He  is 
great  who  confers  the  most  benefits.  He  is  base,  —  and  that  is 
the  one  base  thing  in  the  universe,  —  to  receive  favors  and 
render  none.  In  the  order  of  nature  we  cannot  render  benefits 
to  those  from  whom  we  receive  them,  or  only  seldom.  But  the 
benefit  we  receive  must  be  rendered  again,  line  for  line,  deed 
for  deed,  cent  for  cent,  to  somebody.  Beware  of  too  much  good 
staying  in  your  hand.  It  will  fast  corrupt  and  worm  ^  worms. 
Pay  it  away  quickly  in  some  sort. 

Labor  is  watched  over  by  the  same  pitiless  laws.  Cheapest, 
say  the  prudent,  is  the  dearest  labor.  WTiat  we  buy  in  a  broom, 
a  mat,  a  wagon,  a  knife,  is  some  application  of  good  sense  to  a 
common  want.  It  is  best  to  pay  in  your  land  a  skilful  gardener, 
or  to  buy  good  sense  applied  to  gardening;  in  your  sailor,  good 
sense  applied  to  navigation;  in  the  house,  good  sense  applied 
to  cooking,  sewing,  serving;  in  your  agent,  good  sense  applied 
to  accounts  and  affairs.  So  do  you  multiply  your  presence,  or 
spread  yourself  throughout  your  estate.  But  because  of  the 
dual  constitution  of  things,  in  labor  as  in  life  there  can  be  no 
cheating.  The  thief  steals  from  himself.  The  swindler  swindles 
himself.  For  the  real  price  of  labor  is  knowledge  and  virtue, 
whereof  wealth  and  credit  are  signs.  These  signs,  like  paper 
money,  may  be  counterfeited  or  stolen,  but  that  which  they 
represent,  namely,  knowledge  and  virtue,  cannot  be  counter- 
feited or  stolen.  These  ends  of  labor  cannot  be  answered  but 
by  real  exertions  of  the  mind,  and  in  obedience  to  pure  mo- 
tives. The  cheat,  the  defaulter,  the  gambler,  cannot  extort  the 

^  "This  maxim,"  according  to  Mr.  Edward  Emerson,  "was  a  household  word 
with  Mr.  Emerson."  *  Breed;  cf.  Exodus  xvi,  20. 


COMPENSATION  399 

knowledge  of  material  and  moral  nature  which  his  honest  care 
and  pains  yield  to  the  operative.  The  law  of  nature  is,  Do  the 
thing,  and  you  shall  have  the  power;  but  they  who  do  not  the 
thing  have  not  the  power. 

Human  labor,  through  all  its  forms,  from  the  sharpening  of 
a  stake  to  the  construction  of  a  city  or  an  epic,  is  one  immense 
illustration  of  the  perfect  compensation  of  the  universe.  The 
absolute  balance  of  Give  and  Take,  the  doctrine  that  every- 
thing has  its  price,  —  and  if  that  price  is  not  paid,  not  that 
thing  but  something  else  is  obtained,  and  that  it  is  impossible 
to  get  anything  without  its  price, — is  not  less  sublime  in  the 
columns  of  a  leger  ^  than  in  the  budgets  of  states,  in  the  laws  of 
light  and  darkness,  in  all  the  action  and  reaction  of  nature.  I 
cannot  doubt  that  the  high  laws  which  each  man  sees  implicated 
in  those  processes  with  which  he  is  conversant,  the  stern  ethics 
which  sparkle  on  his  chisel-edge,  which  are  measured  out  by  his 
plmnb  and  foot-rule,  which  stand  as  manifest  in  the  footing  of 
the  shop-bill  as  in  the  history  of  a  state,  —  do  recommend  to 
him  his  trade,  and  though  seldom  named,  exalt  his  business  to 
his  imagination. 

The  league  between  virtue  and  nature  engages  all  things 
to  assume  a  hostile  front  to  vice.  The  beautiful  laws  and  sub- 
stances of  the  world  persecute  and  whip  the  traitor.  He  finds 
that  things  are  arranged  for  truth  and  benefit,  but  there  is  no 
den  in  the  wide  world  to  hide  a  rogue.  Commit  a  crime,  and 
the  earth  is  made  of  glass.  Commit  a  crime,  and  it  seems  as  if  a 
coat  of  snow  fell  on  the  ground,  such  as  reveals  in  the  woods 
the  track  of  every  partridge  and  fox  and  squirrel  and  mole. 
You  cannot  recall  the  spoken  word,  you  cannot  wipe  out  the 
foot- track,  you  cannot  draw  up  the  ladder,  so  as  to  leave  no 
inlet  or  clew.  Some  damning  circumstance  always  transpires. 
The  laws  and  substances  of  nature  —  water,  snow,  wind, 
gravitation  —  become  penalties  to  the  thief. 

On  the  other  hand  the  law  holds  with  equal  sureness  for  all 
right  action.  Love,  and  you  shall  be  loved.  All  love  is  mathe- 
matically just,  as  much  as  the  two  sides  of  an  algebraic  equa- 
tion. The  good  man  has  absolute  good,  which  like  fire  turns 
everything  to  its  own  nature,  so  that  you  cannot  do  him  any 
harm;  but  as  the  royal  armies  sent  against  Napoleon,  when  he 
1  Old  form  of  "ledger." 


400  RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON 

approached  cast  down  their  colors  and  from  enemies  became 
friends,  so  disasters  of  all  kinds,  as  sickness,  offence,  poverty, 
prove  benefactors :  — 

"Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 

Strength  to  the  brave  and  power  and  deity, 

Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing." 

The  good  are  befriended  even  by  weakness  and  defect.  As 
no  man  had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him, 
so  no  man  had  ever  a  defect  that  was  not  somewhere  made 
useful  to  him.  The  stag  in  the  fable  admired  his  horns  and 
blamed  his  feet,  but  when  the  hunter  came,  his  feet  saved  him, 
and  afterwards,  caught  in  the  thicket,  his  horns  destroyed  him. 
Every  man  in  his  lifetime  needs  to  thank  his  faults.  As  no  man 
thoroughly  understands  a  truth  until  he  has  contended  against 
it,  so  no  man  has  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  hindrances 
or  talents  of  men  until  he  has  suffered  from  the  one  and  seen 
the  triumph  of  the  other  over  his  own  want  of  the  same.  Has 
he  a  defect  of  temper  that  unfits  him  to  live  in  society?  Thereby 
he  is  driven  to  entertain  himself  alone  and  acquire  habits  of 
self-help;  and  thus,  like  the  wounded  oyster,  he  mends  his  shell 
with  pearl. 

Our  strength  grows  out  of  our  weakness.  The  indignation 
which  arms  itself  with  secret  forces  does  not  awaken  until  we 
are  pricked  and  stung  and  sorely  assailed.  A  great  man  is 
always  willing  to  be  little.  Whilst  he  sits  on  the  cushion  of 
advantages,  he  goes  to  sleep.  When  he  is  pushed,  tormented, 
defeated,  he  has  a  chance  to  learn  something;  he  has  been  put 
on  his  wits,  on  his  manhood;  he  has  gained  facts;  learns  his 
ignorance;  is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit;  has  got  modera- 
tion and  real  skill.  The  wise  man  throws  himself  on  the  side  of 
his  assailants.  It  is  more  his  interest  than  it  is  theirs  to  find  his 
weak  point.  The  wound  cicatrizes  and  falls  off  from  him  like  a 
dead  skin,  and  when  they  would  triumph,  lo!  he  has  passed  on 
invulnerable.  Blame  is  safer  than  praise.  I  hate  to  be  defended 
in  a  newspaper.  As  long  as  all  that  is  said  is  said  against  me,  I 
feel  a  certain  assurance  of  success.  But  as  soon  as  honeyed 
words  of  praise  are  spoken  for  me  I  feel  as  one  that  lies  unpro- 
tected before  his  enemies.  In  general,  every  evil  to  which  we 
do  not  succumb  is  a  benefactor.  As  the  Sandwich  Islander 
believes  that  the  strength  and  valor  of  the  enemy  he  kills  passes 


COMPENSATION  401 

into  himself,  so  we  gain  the  strength  of  the  temptation  we 
resist. 

The  same  guards  which  protect  us  from  disaster,  defect,  and 
enmity,  defend  us,  if  we  will,  from  selfishness  and  fraud.  Bolts 
and  bars  are  not  the  best  of  our  institutions,  nor  is  shrewdness 
in  trade  a  mark  of  wisdom.  Men  suffer  all  their  Hfe  long  under 
the  fooHsh  superstition  that  they  can  be  cheated.  But  it  is  as 
impossible  for  a  man  to  be  cheated  by  any  one  but  himself,  as 
for  a  thing  to  be  and  not  to  be  at  the  same  time.  There  is  a 
third  silent  party  to  all  our  bargains.  The  nature  and  soul  of 
things  takes  on  itself  the  guaranty  of  the  fulfilment  of  every 
contract,  so  that  honest  service  cannot  come  to  loss.  If  you 
serve  an  ungrateful  master,  serve  him  the  more.  Put  God 
in  your  debt.  Every  stroke  shall  be  repaid.  The  longer  the 
payment  is  withholden,  the  better  for  you;  for  compound 
interest  on  compound  interest  is  the  rate  and  usage  of  this 
exchequer. 

The  history  of  persecution  is  a  history  of  endeavors  to  cheat 
nature,  to  make  water  nm  up  hill,  to  twist  a  rope  of  sand.  It 
makes  no  difference  whether  the  actors  be  many  or  one,  a 
tyrant  or  a  mob.  A  mob  is  a  society  of  bodies  voluntarily 
bereaving  themselves  of  reason  and  traversing  ^  its  work.  The 
mob  is  man  voluntarily  descending  to  the  nature  of  the  beast. 
Its  fit  hour  of  activity  is  night.  Its  actions  are  insane,  like  its 
whole  constitution.  It  persecutes  a  principle;  it  would  whip  a 
right;  it  would  tar  and  feather  justice,  by  inflicting  fire  and 
outrage  upon  the  houses  and  persons  of  those  who  have  these. 
It  resembles  the  prank  of  boys,  who  run  with  fire-engines  to 
put  out  the  ruddy  aurora  streaming  to  the  stars.  The  inviolate 
spirit  turns  their  spite  against  the  wrongdoers.  The  martyr 
cannot  be  dishonored.  Every  lash  inflicted  is  a  tongue  of  fame; 
every  prison  a  more  illustrious  abode;  eveiy  burned  book  or 
house  enlightens  the  world;  every  suppressed  or  expunged 
word  reverberates  through  the  earth  from  side  to  side.  Hours 
of  sanity  and  consideration  are  always  arriving  to  communities, 
as  to  indi^/iduals,  when  the  truth  is  seen  and  the  martyrs  are 
justified. 

Thus  do  all  things  preach  the  indifferency  of  circumstances. 
The  man  is  all.   Everything  has  two  sides,  a  good  and  an  evil. 

*  Denying. 


402  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Every  advantage  has  its  tax.  I  learn  to  be  content.  But  the 
doctrine  of  compensation  is  not  the  doctrine  of  indifferency. 
The  thoughtless  say,  on  hearing  these  representations,  —  What 
boots  it  to  do  well?  there  is  one  event  to  good  and  evil;  if  I  gain 
any  good  I  must  pay  for  it;  if  I  lose  any  good  I  gain  some  other; 
all  actions  are  indifferent. 

There  is  a  deeper  fact  in  the  soul  than  compensation,  to  wit, 
its  own  nature.  The  soul  is  not  a  compensation,  but  a  life.  The 
soul  is.  Under  all  this  running  sea  of  circumstance,  whose 
waters  ebb  and  flow  with  perfect  balance,  lies  the  aboriginal 
abyss  of  real  Being.  Essence,  or  God,  is  not  a  relation  or  a  part, 
but  the  whole.  Being  is  the  vast  affirmative,  excluding  nega- 
tion, self-balanced,  and  swallowing  up  all  relations,  parts,  and 
times  within  itself.  Nature,  truth,  virtue,  are  the  influx  from 
thence.  Vice  is  the  absence  or  departure  of  the  same.  Nothing, 
Falsehood,  may  indeed  stand  as  the  great  Night  or  shade  on 
which  as  a  background  the  living  universe  paints  itself  forth, 
but  no  fact  is  begotten  by  it;  it  cannot  work,  for  it  is  not.  It 
cannot  work  any  good;  it  cannot  work  any  harm.  It  is  harm 
inasmuch  as  it  is  worse  not  to  be  than  to  be. 

We  feel  defrauded  of  the  retribution  due  to  evil  acts,  because 
the  criminal  adheres  to  his  vice  and  contumacy  and  does 
not  come  to  a  crisis  or  judgment  anywhere  in  visible  nature. 
There  is  no  stunning  confutation  of  his  nonsense  before  men 
and  angels.  Has  he  therefore  outwitted  the  law?  Inasmuch 
as  he  carries  the  malignity  and  the  lie  with  him  he  so  far 
deceases  from  nature.  In  some  manner  there  will  be  a  demon- 
stration of  the  wrong  to  the  understanding  also;  but,  should 
we  not  see  it,  this  deadly  deduction  makes  square  the  eternal 
account. 

Neither  can  it  be  said,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  gain  of 
rectitude  must  be  bought  by  any  loss.  There  is  no  penalty  to 
virtue;  no  penalty  to  wisdom;  they  are  proper  additions  of 
being.  In  a  virtuous  action  I  properly  am;  in  a  virtuous  act  I 
add  to  the  world;  I  plant  into  deserts  conquered  from  Chaos 
and  Nothing  and  see  the  darkness  receding  on  the  limits  of  the 
horizon.  There  can  be  no  excess  to  love,  none  to  knowledge, 
none  to  beauty,  when  these  attributes  are  considered  in  the 
purest  sense.  The  soul  refuses  limits,  and  always  affirms  an: 
Optimism,  never  a  Pessimism. 


COMPENSATION  403 

His  life  is  a  progress,  and  not  a  station.  His  instinct  is  trust. 
Our  instinct  uses  "more"  and  "less"  in  application  to  man, 
of  the  presence  of  the  soul,  and  not  of  its  absence;  the  brave  man 
is  greater  than  the  coward;  the  true,  the  benevolent,  the  wise, 
is  more  a  man  and  not  less,  than  the  fool  and  knave.  There 
is  no  tax  on  the  good  of  virtue,  for  that  is  the  incoming  of 
God  himself,  or  absolute  existence,  without  any  comparative. 
Material  good  has  its  tax,  and  if  it  came  without  desert  or 
sweat,  has  no  root  in  me,  and  the  next  wind  will  blow  it  away. 
But  all  the  good  of  nature  is  the  soul's,  and  may  be  had  if  paid 
for  in  nature's  lawful  coin,  that  is,  by  labor  which  the  heart 
and  the  head  allow.  I  no  longer  wish  to  meet  a  good  I  do  not 
earn,  for  example  to  find  a  pot  of  buried  gold,  knowing  that  it 
brings  mth  it  new  burdens.  I  do  not  wish  more  external  goods, 
—  neither  possessions,  nor  honors,  nor  powers,  nor  persons. 
The  gain  is  apparent;  the  tax  is  certain.  But  there  is  no  tax  on 
the  knowledge  that  the  compensation  exists  and  that  it  is  not 
desirable  to  dig  up  treasure.  Herein  I  rejoice  with  a  serene 
eternal  peace.  I  contract  the  boundaries  of  possible  mischief. 
I  learn  the  wisdom  of  St.  Bernard,  "Nothing  can  work  me 
damage  except  myself;  the  harm  that  I  sustain  I  carry  about 
with  me,  and  never  am  a  real  sufferer  but  by  my  own 
fault." 

In  the  nature  of  the  soul  is  the  compensation  for  the  inequali- 
ties of  condition.  The  radical  tragedy  of  nature  seems  to  be 
the  distinction  of  More  and  Less.  How  can  Less  not  feel  the 
pain;  how  not  feel  indignation  or  malevolence  towards  More? 
Look  at  those  who  have  less  faculty,  and  one  feels  sad  and 
knows  not  well  what  to  make  of  it.  He  almost  shuns  their  eye; 
he  fears  they  will  upbraid  God.  What  should  they  do?  It  seems 
a  great  injustice.  But  see  the  facts  nearly  and  these  moimtain- 
ous  inequalities  vanish.  Love  reduces  them  as  the  sun  melts 
the  iceberg  in  the  sea.  The  heart  and  soul  of  all  men  being  one, 
this  bitterness  of  His  and  Mine  ceases.  His  is  mine.  I  am  my 
brother  and  my  brother  is  me.  If  I  feel  overshadowed  and  out- 
done by  great  neighbors,  I  can  yet  love;  I  can  still  receive;  and 
he  that  loveth  maketh  his  own  the  grandeur  he  loves.  Thereby 
I  make  the  discovery  that  my  brother  is  my  guardian,  acting 
for  me  with  the  friendliest  designs,  and  the  estate  I  so  admired 
and  envied  is  my  own.  It  is  the  nature  of  the  soul  to  appropri- 


404  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

ate  all  things.  Jesus  and  Shakespeare  are  fragments  of  the  soul, 
and  by  love  I  conquer  and  incorporate  them  in  my  own  con- 
scious domain.  His  virtue,  —  is  not  that  mine?  His  wit,  —  if  it 
cannot  be  made  mine,  it  is  not  wit. 

Such  also  is  the  natural  history  of  calamity.  The  changes 
which  break  up  at  short  intervals  the  prosperity  of  men  are 
advertisements  of  a  nature  whose  law  is  growth.  Every  soul  is 
by  this  intrinsic  necessity  quitting  its  whole  system  of  things, 
its  friends  and  home  and  laws  and  faith,  as  the  shell-fish  crawls 
out  of  its  beautiful  but  stony  case,  because  it  no  longer  admits 
of  its  growth,  and  slowly  forms  a  new  house.  In  proportion  to 
the  vigor  of  the  individual  these  revolutions  are  frequent,  until 
in  some  happier  mind  they  are  incessant  and  all  worldly  rela- 
tions hang  very  loosely  about  him,  becoming  as  it  were  a  trans- 
parent fluid  membrane  through  which  the  living  form  is  seen, 
and  not,  as  in  most  men,  an  indurated  heterogeneous  fabric  of 
many  dates  and  of  no  settled  character,  in  which  the  man  is 
imprisoned.  Then  there  can  be  enlargement,  and  the  man  of 
to-day  scarcely  recognizes  the  man  of  yesterday.  And  such 
should  be  the  outward  biography  of  man  in  time,  a  putting  off 
of  dead  circumstances  day  by  day,  as  he  renews  his  raiment 
day  by  day.  But  to  us,  in  our  lapsed  estate,  resting,  not  ad- 
vancing, resisting,  not  cooperating  with  the  divine  expansion, 
this  growth  comes  by  shocks. 

We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  cannot  let  our  angels 
go.  We  do  not  see  that  they  only  go  out  that  archangels  may 
come  in.  We  are  idolaters  of  the  old.  We  do  not  believe  in  the 
riches  of  the  soul,  in  its  proper  eternity  and  omnipresence.  We 
do  not  believe  there  is  any  force  in  to-day  to  rival  or  recreate 
that  beautiful  yesterday.  We  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  tent 
where  once  we  had  bread  and  shelter  and  organs,  nor  believe 
that  the  spirit  can  feed,  cover,  and  nerve  us  again.  We  cannot 
again  find  aught  so  dear,  so  sweet,  so  graceful.  But  we  sit  and 
weep  in  vain.  The  voice  of  the  Almighty  saith,  ''Up  and  on- 
ward forevermore ! "  We  cannot  stay  amid  the  ruins.  Neither 
will  we  rely  on  the  new ;  and  so  we  walk  ever  with  reverted 
eyes,  like  those  monsters  who  look  backwards. 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are  made  apparent 
to  the  understanding  also,  after  long  intervals  of  time.  A  fever, 
a  mutilation,  a  cruel  disappointment,  a  loss  of  wealth,  a  loss  of 


LOVE  405 

friends,  seems  at  the  moment  unpaid  loss,  and  impayable.  But 
the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial  force  that  underlies  all 
facts.  The  death  of  a  dear  friend,  wife,  brother,  lover,  which 
seemed  nothing  but  privation,  somewhat  later  assumes  the 
aspect  of  a  guide  or  genius;  for  it  commonly  operates  revolu- 
tions in  our  way  of  life,  terminates  an  epoch  of  infancy  or  of 
youth  which  was  waiting  to  be  closed,  breaks  up  a  wonted 
occupation,  or  a  household,  or  style  of  living,  and  allows  the 
formation  of  new  ones  more  friendly  to  the  growth  of  character. 
It  permits  or  constrains  the  formation  of  new  acquaintances 
and  the  reception  of  new  influences  that  prove  of  the  first 
importance  to  the  next  years;  and  the  man  or  woman  who  would 
have  remained  a  sunny  garden-flower,  with  no  room  for  its 
roots  and  too  much  sunshine  for  its  head,  by  the  falling  of  the 
walls  and  the  neglect  of  the  gardener  is  made  the  banian  of  the 
forest,  yielding  shade  and  fruit  to  wide  neighborhoods  of  men. 

LOVEi 

"I  was  as  a  gem  concealed; 
Me  my  burning  ray  revealed."  ' 

Koran. 

Every  promise  of  the  soul  has  innmnerable  fulfilments;  each 
of  its  joys  ripens  into  a  new  want.  Nature,  imcontainable, 
flowing,  forelooking,  in  the  first  sentiment  of  kindness  antici- 
pates already  a  benevolence  which  shall  lose  all  particular 
regards  in  its  general  light.  The  introduction  to  this  felicity  is 
in  a  private  and  tender  relation  of  one  to  one,  which  is  the 
enchantment  of  human  life;  which,  like  a  certain  divine  rage 
and  enthusiasm,  seizes  on  a  man  at  one  period,  and  works  a 
revolution  in  his  mind  and  body;  unites  him  to  his  race,  pledges 
him  to  the  domestic  and  civic  relations,  carries  him  with  new 
sympathy  into  nature,  enhances  the  power  of  the  senses,  opens 
the  imagination,  adds  to  his  character  heroic  and  sacred  attri- 
butes, establishes  marriage,  and  gives  permanence  to  human 
society. 

The  natural  association  of  the  sentiment  of  love  with  the 
heyday  of  the  blood  seems  to  require,  that  in  order  to  portray 

*  Essays,  First  Series. 

'  Emerson's  note-book  version  reads:  "I  was  as  a  treasure  concealed:  then  I 
loved  that  I  might  be  known." 


4o6  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

it  in  vivid  tints,  which  every  youth  and  maid  should  confess  to 
be  true  to  their  throbbing  experience,  one  must  not  be  too  old. 
The  delicious  fancies  of  youth  reject  the  least  savor  of  a  mature 
philosophy,  as  chilHng  with  age  and  pedantry  their  purple 
bloom.  And,  therefore,  I  know  I  incur  the  imputation  of  un- 
necessary hardness  and  stoicism  from  those  who  compose  the 
Court  and  ParHament  of  Love.  But  from  these  formidable 
censors  I  shall  appeal  to  my  seniors.  For  it  is  to  be  considered 
that  this  passion  of  which  we  speak,  though  it  begin  with  the 
young,  yet  forsakes  not  the  old,  or  rather  suffers  no  one  who  is 
truly  its  servant  to  grow  old,  but  makes  the  aged  participators 
of  it,  not  less  than  the  tender  maiden,  though  in  a  different  and 
nobler  sort.  For  it  is  a  fire  that,  kindling  its  first  embers  in  the 
narrow  nook  of  a  private  bosom,  caught  from  a  wandering 
spark  out  of  another  private  heart,  glows  and  enlarges  until  it 
warms  and  beams  upon  multitudes  of  men  and  women,  upon 
the  universal  heart  of  all,  and  so  lights  up  the  whole  world  and 
all  nature  with  its  generous  flames.  It  matters  not,  therefore, 
whether  we  attempt  to  describe  the  passion  at  twenty,  at  thirty, 
or  at  eighty  years.  He  who  paints  it  at  the  first  period  will  lose 
some  of  its  later,  he  who  paints  it  at  the  last,  some  of  its 
earher  traits.  Only  it  is  to  be  hoped  that,  by  patience  and 
the  Muses'  aid,  we  may  attain  to  that  inward  view  of  the  law, 
which  shall  describe  a  truth  ever  young  and  beautiful,  so  cen- 
tral that  it  shall  commend  itself  to  the  eye,  at  whatever  angle 
beholden. 

And  the  first  condition  is,  that  we  must  leave  a  too  close  and 
lingering  adherence  to  facts,  and  study  the  sentiment  as  it 
appeared  in  hope  and  not  in  history.  For  each  man  sees  his 
own  life  defaced  and  disfigured,  as  the  life  of  man  is  not,  to  his 
imagination.  Each  man  sees  over  his  own  experience  a  certain 
stain  of  error,  whilst  that  of  other  men  looks  fair  and  ideal. 
Let  any  man  go  back  to  those  delicious  relations  which  make 
the  beauty  of  his  life,  which  have  given  him  sincerest  instruc- 
tion and  nourishment,  he  will  shrink  and  moan.  Alas !  I  know 
not  why,  but  infinite  compunctions  embitter  in  mature  life  the 
remembrances  of  budding  joy,  and  cover  every  beloved  name. 
Everything  is  beautiful  seen  from  the  point  of  the  intellect,  or 
as  truth.  But  all  is  sour,  if  seen  as  experience.  Details  are 
melancholy;  the  plan  is  seemly  and  noble.  In  the  actual  world 


LOVE  407 

—  the  painful  kingdom  of  time  and  place  —  dwell  care,  and 
canker,  and  fear.  With  thought,  with  the  ideal,  is  immortal 
hilarity,  the  rose  of  joy.  Round  it  all  the  Muses  sing.  But  grief 
cleaves  to  names,  and  persons,  and  the  partial  interests  of 
to-day  and  yesterday. 

The  strong  bent  of  nature  is  seen  in  the  proportion  which  this 
topic  of  personal  relations  usurps  in  the  conversation  of  society. 
Wliat  do  we  wish  to  know  of  any  worthy  person  so  much,  as 
how  he  has  sped  in  the  history  of  this  sentiment?  What  books 
in  the  circulating  Ubraries  circulate?  How  we  glow  over  these 
novels  of  passion,  when  the  story  is  told  with  any  spark  of  truth 
and  nature!  And  what  fastens  attention,  in  the  intercourse  of 
life,  like  any  passage  betraying  affection  between  two  parties? 
Perhaps  we  never  saw  them  before,  and  never  shall  meet  them 
again.  But  we  see  them  exchange  a  glance,  or  betray  a  deep 
emotion,  and  we  are  no  longer  strangers.  We  imderstand  them, 
and  take  the  warmest  interest  in  the  development  of  the  ro- 
mance. All  mankind  love  a  lover.  The  earliest  demonstrations 
of  complacency  and  kindness  are  nature's  most  winning  pic- 
tures. It  is  the  dawn  of  civility  and  grace  in  the  coarse  and 
rustic.  The  rude  village  boy  teases  the  girls  about  the  school- 
house  door;  but  to-day  he  comes  running  into  the  entry,  and 
meets  one  fair  child  disposing  her  satchel;  he  holds  her  books 
to  help  her,  and  instantly  it  seems  to  him  as  if  she  removed 
herself  from  him  infinitely,  and  was  a  sacred  precinct.  Among 
the  throng  of  girls  he  runs  rudely  enough,  but  one  alone  dis- 
tances him;  and  these  two  little  neighbors,  that  were  so  close 
just  now,  have  learned  to  respect  each  other's  personality.  Or 
who  can  avert  his  eyes  from  the  engaging,  half -artful,  half- 
artless  ways  of  school-girls  who  go  into  the  country  shops  to 
buy  a  skein  of  silk  or  a  sheet  of  pap>er,  and  talk  half  an  hour 
about  nothing  with  the  broad-faced,  good-natured  shop-boy. 
In  the  village  they  are  on  a  perfect  equality,  which  love  delights 
in,  and  without  any  coquetry  the  happy,  afifectionate  nature  of 
woman  flows  out  in  this  pretty  gossip.  The  girls  may  have  little 
beauty,  yet  plainly  do  they  establish  between  them  and  the 
good  boy  the  most  agreeable,  confiding  relations,  what  with 
their  fun  and  their  earnest,  about  Edgar,  and  Jonas,  and  Almira, 
and  who  was  invited  to  the  party,  and  who  danced  at  the 
dancing-school,  and  when  the  singing-school  would  begin,  and 


4o8  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

other  nothings  concerning  which  the  parties  cooed.  By  and  by 
that  boy  wants  a  wife,  and  very  truly  and  heartily  will  he  know 
where  to  find  a  sincere  and  sweet  mate,  without  any  risk  such 
as  Milton  deplores  as  incident  to  scholars  and  great  men. 

I  have  been  told,  that  in  some  public  discourses  of  mine  my 
reverence  for  the  intellect  has  made  me  unjustly  cold  to  the 
personal  relations.  But  now  I  almost  shrink  at  the  remem- 
brance of  such  disparaging  words.  For  persons  are  love's  world, 
and  the  coldest  philosopher  cannot  recount  the  debt  of  the 
young  soul  wandering  here  in  nature  to  the  power  of  love,  with- 
out being  tempted  to  unsay,  as  treasonable  to  nature,  aught 
derogatory  to  the  social  instincts.  For,  though  the  celestial 
rapture  falling  out  of  heaven  seizes  only  upon  those  of  tender 
age,  and  although  a  beauty  overpowering  all  analysis  or  com- 
parison, and  putting  us  quite  beside  ourselves,  we  can  seldom 
see  after  thirty  years,  yet  the  remembrance  of  these  visions  out- 
lasts all  other  remembrances,  and  is  a  wreath  of  flowers  on  the 
oldest  brows.  But  here  is  a  strange  fact;  it  may  seem  to  many 
men,  in  revising  their  experience,  that  they  have  no  fairer  page 
in  their  life's  book  than  the  delicious  memory  of  some  passages 
wherein  affection  contrived  to  give  a  witchcraft  surpassing  the 
deep  attraction  of  its  own  truth  to  a  parcel  of  accidental  and 
trivial  circumstances.  In  looking  backward,  they  may  find 
that  several  things  which  were  not  the  charm  have  more  reahty 
to  this  groping  memory  than  the  charm  itself  which  embalmed 
them.  But  be  our  experience  in  particulars  what  it  may,  no 
man  ever  forgot  the  visitations  of  that  power  to  his  heart  and 
brain,  which  created  all  things  new;  which  was  the  dawn  in 
him  of  music,  poetry,  and  art;  which  made  the  face  of  nature 
radiant  with  purple  Hght;  the  morning  and  the  night  varied 
enchantments;  when  a  single  tone  of  one  voice  could  make  the 
heart  bound,  and  the  most  trivial  circumstance  associated  with 
one  form  is  put  in  the  amber  of  memory;  when  he  became  all 
eye  when  one  was  present,  and  all  memory  when  one  was  gone ; 
when  the  youth  becomes  a  watcher  of  windows,  and  studious 
of  a  glove,  a  veil,  a  ribbon,  or  the  wheels  of  a  carriage;  when  no 
place  is  too  solitary,  and  none  too  silent,  for  him  who  has  richer 
company  and  sweeter  conversation  in  his  new  thoughts,  than 
any  old  friends,  though  best  and  purest,  can  give  him;  for  the 
figures,  the  motions,  the  words  of  the  beloved  object  are  not 


LOVE  409 

like  other  images  written  in  water,  but,  as  Plutarch  said, 
"enamelled  in  fire,"  and  make  the  study  of  midnight. 

"  Thou  art  not  gone  being  gone,  where'er  thou  art, 
Thou  leav'st  in  him  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  him  thy  loving  heart." 

In  the  noon  and  the  afternoon  of  life  we  still  throb  at  the  recol- 
lection of  days  when  happiness  was  not  happy  enough,  but 
must  be  drugged  with  the  relish  of  pain  and  fear;  for  he  touched 
the  secret  of  the  matter,  who  said  of  love, 

"  All  other  pleasures  are  not  worth  its  pains  "  ; 

and  when  the  day  was  not  long  enough,  but  the  night,  too,  must 
be  consumed  in  keen  recollections;  when  the  head  boiled  all 
night  on  the  pillow  with  the  generous  deed  it  resolved  on;  when 
the  moonlight  was  a  pleasing  fever,  and  the  stars  were  letters, 
and  the  flowers  ciphers,  and  the  air  was  coined  into  song;  when 
all  business  seemed  an  impertinence,  and  all  the  men  and 
women  running  to  and  fro  in  the  streets  mere  pictures. 

The  passion  rebuilds  the  world  for  the  youth.  It  makes  all 
things  alive  and  significant.  Nature  grows  conscious.  Every 
bird  on  the  boughs  of  the  tree  sings  now  to  his  heart  and  soul. 
The  notes  are  almost  articulate.  The  clouds  have  faces  as  he 
looks  on  them.  The  trees  of  the  forest,  the  waving  grass,  and 
the  peeping  flowers  have  grown  intelligent;  and  he  almost  fears 
to  trust  them  with  the  secret  which  they  seem  to  invite.  Yet 
nature  soothes  and  sympathizes.  In  the  green  solitude  he  finds 
a  dearer  home  than  with  men. 

"  Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves, 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  safely  housed,  save  bats  and  owls, 
A  midnight  bell,  a  passing  groan,  — 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon." 

Behold  there  in  the  wood  the  fine  madman.  He  is  a  palace 
of  sweet  sounds  and  sighs;  he  dilates;  he  is  twice  a  man;  he 
walks  with  arms  akimbo;  he  soliloquizes;  he  accosts  the  grass 
and  the  trees;  he  feels  the  blood  of  the  violet,  the  clover,  and 
the  lily  in  his  veins;  and  he  talks  with  the  brook  that  wets 
his  foot. 

The  heats  that  have  opened  his  perceptions  of  natural  beauty 
have  made  him  love  music  and  verse.  It  is  a  fact  often  observed, 


4IO  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

that  men  have  written  good  verses  under  the  inspiration  of 
passion,  who  cannot  write  well  under  any  other  circumstances. 

The  like  force  has  the  passion  over  all  his  nature.  It  expands 
the  sentiment;  it  makes  the  clown  gentle,  and  gives  the  coward 
heart.  Into  the  most  pitiful  and  abject  it  will  infuse  a  heart 
and  courage  to  defy  the  world,  so  only  it  have  the  countenance 
of  the  beloved  object.  In  giving  him  to  another,  it  still  more 
gives  him  to  himself.  He  is  a  new  man,  with  new  perceptions, 
new  and  keener  purposes,  and  a  religious  solemnity  of  charac- 
ter and  aims.  He  does  not  longer  appertain  to  his  family  and 
society;  he  is  somewhat;  he  is  a  person;  he  is  a  soul. 

And  here  let  us  examine  a  little  nearer  the  nature  of  that 
influence  which  is  thus  potent  over  the  human  youth.  Beauty, 
whose  revelation  to  man  we  now  celebrate,  welcome  as  the  sun 
wherever  it  pleases  tq  shine,  which  pleases  everybody  with  it 
and  with  themselves,  seems  sufficient  to  itself.  The  lover  can- 
not paint  his  maiden  to  his  fancy  poor  and  sohtary.  Like  a  tree 
in  flower,  so  much  soft,  budding,  informing  loveliness  is  society 
for  itself,  and  she  teaches  his  eye  why  Beauty  was  pictured 
with  Loves  and  Graces  attending  her  steps.  Her  existence 
makes  the  world  rich.  Though  she  extrudes  all  other  persons 
from  his  attention  as  cheap  and  unworthy,  she  indemnifies  him 
by  carrying  out  her  own  being  into  somewhat  impersonal,  large, 
mundane,  so  that  the  maiden  stands  to  him  for  a  representative 
of  all  select  things  and  virtues.  For  that  reason,  the  lover  never 
sees  personal  resemblances  in  his  mistress  to  her  kindred  or  to 
others.  His  friends  find  in  her  a  likeness  to  her  mother,  or  her 
sisters,  or  to  persons  not  of  her  blood.  The  lover  sees  no  re- 
semblance except  to  summer  evenings  and  diamond  mornings, 
to  rainbows,  and  the  song  of  birds. 

The  ancients  called  beauty  the  flowering  of  virtue.  Who  can 
analyze  the  nameless  charm  which  glances  from  one  and 
another  face  and  form?  We  are  touched  with  emotions  of  ten- 
derness and  complacency,  but  we  cannot  find  whereat  this 
dainty  emotion,  this  wandering  gleam,  points.  It  is  destroyed 
for  the  imagination  by  any  attempt  to  refer  it  to  organization. 
Nor  does  it  point  to  any  relations  of  friendship  or  love  known 
and  described  in  society,  but,  as  it  seems  to  me,  to  a  quite  other 
and  unattainable  sphere,  to  relations  of  transcendent  delicacy 
and  sweetness,  to  what  roses  and  violets  hint  and  foreshow. 


LOVE  411 

We  cannot  approach  beauty.  Its  nature  is  like  opaline  doves*- 
neck  lustres,  hovering  and  evanescent.  Herein  it  resembles  the 
most  excellent  things,  which  all  have  this  rainbow  character, 
defying  all  attempts  at  appropriation  and  use.  What  else  did 
Jean  Paul  Richter  signify,  when  he  said  to  music,  "Away! 
away!  thou  speakest  to  me  of  things  which  in  all  my  endless 
life  I  have  not  found,  and  shall  not  find."  The  same  fluency 
may  be  observed  in  every  work  of  the  plastic  arts.  The  statue 
is  then  beautiful  when  it  begins  to  be  incomprehensible,  when 
.  it  is  passing  out  of  criticism,  and  can  no  longer  be  defined  by 
compass  and  measuring- wand,  but  demands  an  active  imagina- 
tion to  go  with  it,  and  to  say  what  it  is  in  the  act  of  doing.  The 
god  or  hero  of  the  sculptor  is  always  represented  in  a  transition 
from  that  which  is  representable  to  the  senses,  to  that  which  is 
not.  Then  first  it  ceases  to  be  a  stone.  The  same  remark  holds 
of  painting.  And  of  poetry,  the  success  is  not  attained  when  it 
lulls  and  satisfies,  but  when  it  astonishes  and  fires  us  with  new 
endeavors  after  the  unattainable.  Concerning  it,  Landor  in- 
quires "whether  it  is  not  to  be  referred  to  some  purer  state  of 
sensation  and  existence." 

In  Hke  manner,  personal  beauty  is  then  first  charming  and 
itself,  when  it  dissatisfies  us  with  any  end ;  when  it  becomes  a 
story  without  an  end;  when  it  suggests  gleams  and  visions,  and 
not  earthly  satisfactions;  when  it  makes  the  beholder  feel  his 
unworthiness;  when  he  cannot  feel  his  right  to  it,  though  he 
were  Caesar;  he  cannot  feel  more  right  to  it  than  to  the  firma- 
ment and  the  splendors  of  a  sunset. 

Hence  arose  the  saying,  "  If  I  love  you,  what  is  that  to  you?  " 
We  say  so,  because  we  feel  that  what  we  love  is  not  in  your  will, 
but  above  it.  It  is  not  you  but  your  radiance.  It  is  that  which 
you  know  not  in  yourself,  and  can  never  know. 

This  agrees  well  with  that  high  philosophy  of  Beauty  which 
the  ancient  writers  delighted  in;  for  they  said  that  the  soul  of 
man,  embodied  here  on  earth,  went  roaming  up  and  down  in 
quest  of  that  other  world  of  its  own,  out  of  which  it  came  into 
this,  but  was  soon  stupefied  by  the  light  of  the  natural  sun,  and 
unable  to  see  any  other  objects  than  those  of  this  world,  which 
are  but  shadows  of  real  things.  Therefore,  the  Deity  sends  the 
glor>^  of  youth  before  the  soul,  that  it  may  avail  itself  of  beauti- 
ful bodies  as  aids  to  its  recollection  of  the  celestial  good  and 


4X2  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

fair;  and  the  man  beholding  such  a  person  in  the  female  sex 
runs  to  her,  and  finds  the  highest  joy  in  contemplating  the 
form,  movement,  and  intelligence  of  this  person,  because  it 
suggests  to  him  the  presence  of  that  which  indeed  is  within  the 
beauty,  and  the  cause  of  the  beauty. 

If,  however,  from  too  much  conversing  with  material  objects, 
the  soul  was  gross,  and  misplaced  its  satisfaction  in  the  body, 
it  reaped  nothing  but  sorrow;  body  being  unable  to  fulfil  the 
promise  which  beauty  holds  out;  but  if,  accepting  the  hint  of 
these  visions  and  suggestions  which  beauty  makes  to  his  mind, 
the  soul  passes  through  the  body,  and  falls  to  admire  strokes  of 
character,  and  the  lovers  contemplate  one  another  in  their  dis- 
courses and  their  actions,  then  they  pass  to  the  true  palace  of 
beauty,  more  and  more  inflame  their  love  of  it,  and  by  this  love 
extinguishing  the  base  affection,  as  the  sun  puts  out  the  fire  by 
shining  on  the  hearth,  they  become  pure  and  hallowed.  By 
conversation  with  that  which  is  in  itself  excellent,  magnani- 
mous, lowly,  and  just,  the  lover  comes  to  a  warmer  love  of 
these  nobilities,  and  a  quicker  apprehension  of  them.  Then  he 
passes  from  loving  them  in  one  to  loving  them  in  all,  and  so  is 
the  one  beautiful  soul  only  the  door  through  which  he  enters 
to  the  society  of  all  true  and  pure  souls.  In  the  particular 
society  of  his  mate,  he  attains  a  clearer  sight  of  any  spot,  any 
taint,  which  her  beauty  has  contracted  from  this  world,  and  is 
able  to  point  it  out,  and  this  with  mutual  joy  that  they  are  now 
able,  without  offence,  to  indicate  blemishes  and  hindrances  in 
each  other,  and  give  to  each  all  help  and  comfort  in  curing  the 
same.  And,  beholding  in  many  souls  the  traits  of  the  divine 
beauty,  and  separating  in  each  soul  that  which  is  divine  from 
the  taint  which  it  has  contracted  in  the  world,  the  lover  ascends 
to  the  highest  beauty,  to  the  love  and  knowledge  of  the  Divin- 
ity, by  steps  on  this  ladder  of  created  souls. 

Somewhat  like  this  have  the  truly  wise  told  us  of  love  in  all 
ages.  The  doctrine  is  not  old,  nor  is  it  new.  If  Plato,  Plutarch, 
and  Apuleius  taught  it,  so  have  Petrarch,  Angelo,  and  Milton. 
It  awaits  a  truer  unfolding  in  opposition  and  rebuke  to  that 
subterranean  prudence  which  presides  at  marriages  with  words 
that  take  hold  of  the  upper  world,  whilst  one  eye  is  prowHng  in 
the  cellar,  so  that  its  gravest  discourse  has  a  savor  of  hams  and 
powdering-tubs.  Worst,  when  this  sensualism  intrudes  into  the 


LOVE  413 

education  of  young  women,  and  withers  the  hope  and  affection 
of  human  nature,  by  teaching  that  marriage  signifies  nothing 
but  a  housewife's  thrift,  and  that  woman's  life  has  no  other  aim. 
But  this  dream  of  love,  though  beautiful,  is  only  one  scene  in 
our  play.  In  the  procession  of  the  soul  from  within  outward, 
it  enlarges  its  circles  ever,  like  the  pebble  thrown  into  the  pond, 
or  the  light  proceeding  from  an  orb.  The  rays  of  the  soul  alight 
first  on  things  nearest,  on  every  utensil  and  toy,  on  nurses  and 
domestics,  on  the  house,  and  yard,  and  passengers,  on  the  circle 
of  household  acquaintance,  on  politics,  and  geography,  and 
history.  But  things  are  ever  grouping  themselves  according  to 
higher  or  more  interior  laws.  Neighborhood,  size,  numbers, 
habits,  persons,  lose  by  degrees  their  power  over  us.  Cause  and 
effect,  real  affinities,  the  longing  for  harmony  between  the  soul 
and  the  circumstance,  the  progressive,  idealizing  instinct,  pre- 
dominate later,  and  the  step  backward  from  the  higher  to  the 
lower  relations  is  impossible.  Thus  even  love,  which  is  the 
deification  of  persons,  must  become  more  impersonal  every  day. 
Of  this  at  first  it  gives  no  hint.  Little  think  the  youth  and 
maiden  who  are  glancing  at  each  other  across  crowded  rooms, 
with  eyes  so  full  of  mutual  intelligence,  of  the  precious  fruit 
long  hereafter  to  proceed  from  this  new,  quite  external  stimu- 
lus. The  work  of  vegetation  begins  first  in  the  irritability  of  the 
bark  and  leaf -buds.  From  exchanging  glances,  they  advance  to 
acts  of  courtesy,  of  gallantry,  then  to  fiery  passion,  to  phghting 
troth,  and  marriage.  Passion  beholds  its  object  as  a  perfect 
unit.  The  soul  is  wholly  embodied,  and  the  body  is  wholly 
ensouled. 

"Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
That  one  might  almost  say  her  body  thought." 

Romeo,  if  dead,  should  be  cut  up  into  little  stars  to  make  the 
heavens  fine.  Life,  with  this  pair,  has  no  other  aim,  asks  no 
more,  than  JuHet,  —  than  Romeo.  Night,  day,  studies,  talents, 
kingdoms,  religion,  are  all  contained  in  this  form  full  of  soul,  in 
this  soul  which  is  all  form.  The  lovers  delight  in  endearments, 
in  avowals  of  love,  in  comparisons  of  their  regards.  When  alone, 
they  solace  themselves  with  the  remembered  image  of  the  other. 
Does  that  other  see  the  same  star,  the  same  melting  cloud,  read 
the  same  book,  feel  the  same  emotion,  that  now  delight  me? 


414  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

They  try  and  weigh  their  affection,  and,  adding  up  costly 
advantages,  friends,  opportunities,  properties,  exult  in  discov- 
ering that  willingly,  joyfully,  they  would  give  all  as  a  ransom 
for  the  beautiful,  the  beloved  head,  not  one  hair  of  which  shall 
be  harmed.  But  the  lot  of  humanity  is  on  these  children. 
Danger,  sorrow,  and  pain  arrive  to  them,  as  to  all.  Love  prays. 
It  makes  covenants  with  Eternal  Power  in  behalf  of  this  dear 
mate.  The  union  which  is  thus  effected,  and  which  adds  a  new 
value  to  every  atom  in  nature,  for  it  transmutes  every  thread 
throughout  the  whole  web  of  relation  into  a  golden  ray,  and 
bathes  the  soul  in  a  new  and  sweeter  element,  is  yet  a  tempo- 
rary state.  Not  always  can  flowers,  pearls,  poetry,  protesta- 
tions, nor  even  home  in  another  heart,  content  the  awful  soul 
that  dwells  in  clay.  It  arouses  itself  at  last  from  these  endear- 
ments, as  toys,  and  puts  on  the  harness,  and  aspires  to  vast 
and  universal  aims.  The  soul  which  is  in  the  soul  of  each,  crav- 
ing a  perfect  beatitude,  detects  incongruities,  defects,  and  dis- 
proportion in  the  behavior  of  the  other.  Hence  arise  surprise, 
expostulation,  and  pain.  Yet  that  which  drew  them  to  each 
other  was  signs  of  loveliness,  signs  of  virtue;  and  these  virtues 
are  there,  however  eclipsed.  They  appear  and  reappear,  and 
continue  to  attract;  but  the  regard  changes,  quits  the  sign, 
and  attaches  to  the  substance.  This  repairs  the  wounded  af- 
fection. Mean  time,  as  life  wears  on,  it  proves  a  game  of  per- 
mutajtion  and  combination  of  all  possible  positions  of  the  par- 
ties, to  employ  all  the  resources  of  each,  and  acquaint  each 
with  the  strength  and  weakness  of  the  other.  For  it  is  the 
nature  and  end  of  this  relation,  that  they  should  represent 
the  human  race  to  each  other.  All  that  is  in  the  world,  which  is 
or  ought  to  be  known,  is  cunningly  wrought  into  the  texture 
of  man,  of  woman. 

"The  person  love  does  to  us  fit, 
Like  manna,  has  the  taste  of  all  in  it." 

The  world  rolls;  the  circumstances  vary  every  hour.  The 
angels  that  inhabit  this  temple  of  the  body  appear  at  the  win- 
dows, and  the  gnomes  and  vices  also.  By  all  the  virtues  they 
are  united.  If  there  be  virtue,  all  the  vices  are  known  as  such; 
they  confess  and  flee.  Their  once  flaming  regard  is  sobered  by 
time  in  either  breast,  and,  losing  in  violence  what  it  gains  in 


LOVE  415 

extent,  it  becomes  a  thorough  good  understanding.  They  resign 
each  other,  without  complaint,  to  the  good  oifices  which  man 
and  woman  are  severally  appointed  to  discharge  in  time,  and 
exchange  the  passion  which  once  could  not  lose  sight  of  its 
object,  for  a  cheerful,  disengaged  furtherance,  whether  present 
or  absent,  of  each  other's  designs.  At  last  they  discover  that 
all  which  at  first  drew  them  together,  —  those  once  sacred 
features,  that  magical  play  of  charms,  —  was  deciduous,  had  a 
prospective  end,  like  the  scaffolding  by  which  the  house  was 
built;  and  the  purification  of  the  intellect  and  the  heart,  from 
year  to  year,  is  the  real  marriage,  foreseen  and  prepared  from 
the  first,  and  wholly  above  their  consciousness.  Looking  at 
these  aims  with  which  two  persons,  a  man  and  a  woman,  so 
variously  and  correlatively  gifted,  are  shut  up  in  one  house  to 
spend  in  the  nuptial  society  forty  or  fifty  years,  I  do  not  won- 
der at  the  emphasis  with  which  the  heart  prophesies  this  crisis 
from  early  infancy,  at  the  profuse  beauty  with  which  the  in- 
stincts deck  the  nuptial  bower,  and  nature,  and  intellect,  and 
art  emulate  each  other  in  the  gifts  and  the  melody  they  bring 
to  the  epithalamium. 

Thus  are  we  put  in  training  for  a  love  which  knows  not  sex, 
nor  person,  nor  partiality,  but  which  seeks  virtue  and  wisdom 
everywhere,  to  the  end  of  increasing  virtue  and  wisdom.  We 
are  by  nature  observers,  and  thereby  learners.  That  is  our  per- 
manent state.  But  we  are  often  made  to  feel  that  our  affections 
are  but  tents  of  a  night.  Though  slowly  and  with  pain,  the 
objects  of  the  affections  change,  as  the  objects  of  thought  do. 
There  are  moments  when  the  affections  rule  and  absorb  the 
man,  and  make  his  happiness  dependent  on  a  person  or  persons. 
But  in  health  the  mind  is  presently  seen  again,  —  its  over- 
arching vault,  bright  with  galaxies  of  immutable  lights,  and  the 
warm  loves  and  fears  that  swept  over  us  as  clouds,  must  lose 
their  finite  character  and  blend  with  God,  to  attain  their  own 
perfection.  But  we  need  not  fear  that  we  can  lose  anything  by 
the  progress  of  the  soul.  The  soul  may  be  trusted  to  the  end. 
That  which  is  so  beautiful  and  attractive  as  these  relations 
must  be  succeeded  and  supplanted  only  by  what  is  more 
beautiful,  and  so  on  forever. 


4i6  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD  ^ 

Among  the  eminent  persons  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
Bonaparte  is  far  the  best  known,  and  the  most  powerful;  and 
owes  his  predominance  to  the  fideHty  with  which  he  expresses 
the  tone  of  thought  and  behef ,  the  aims  of  the  masses  of  active 
and  cultivated  men.  It  is  Swedenborg's  theory,  that  every 
organ  is  made  up  of  homogeneous  particles;  or,  as  it  is  some- 
times expressed,  every  whole  is  made  of  similars;  that  is,  the 
lungs  are  composed  of  infinitely  small  lungs;  the  liver,  of  in- 
finitely small  livers;  the  kidney,  of  little  kidneys,  etc.  Follow- 
ing this  analogy,  if  any  man  is  found  to  carry  with  him  the 
power  and  affections  of  vast  numbers,  if  Napoleon  is  France, 
if  Napoleon  is  Europe,  it  is  because  the  people  whom  he  sways 
are  little  Napoleons. 

In  our  society,  there  is  a  standing  antagonism  between  the 
conservative  and  the  democratic  classes;  between  those  who 
have  made  their  fortunes,  and  the  young  and  the  poor  who 
have  fortunes  to  make;  between  the  interests  of  dead  labor  — 
that  is,  the  labor  of  hands  long  ago  still  in  the  grave,  which  labor 
is  now  entombed  in  money  stocks,  or  in  land  and  buildings 
owned  by  idle  capitalists  —  and  the  interests  of  living  labor, 
which  seeks  to  possess  itself  of  land,  and  buildings,  and  money 
stocks.  The  first  class  is  timid,  selfish,  illiberal,  hating  innova- 
tion, and  continually  losing  numbers  by  death.  The  second 
class  is  selfish  also,  encroaching,  bold,  self-relying,  always  out- 
numbering the  other,  and  recruiting  its  numbers  every  hour  by 
births.  It  desires  to  keep  open  every  avenue  to  the  competi- 
tion of  all,  and  to  multiply  avenues;  —  the  class  of  business  men 
in  America,  in  England,  in  France,  and  throughout  Europe; 
the  class  of  industry  and  skill.  Napoleon  is  its  representative. 
The  instinct  of  active,  brave,  able  men,  throughout  the  middle 

*  Representative  Men.  This  book,  published  in  1850,  is  composed  of  a  course  of 
seven  lectures  originally  given  before  the  Boston  Lyceum  in  1845-46.  The 
representative  men  are  Plato  (Philosopher),  Swedenborg  (Mystic),  Montaigne 
(Skeptic),  Shakespeare  (Poet),  Napoleon  (Man  of  the  Worid),  and  Goethe 
(Writer).  Of  Emerson's  regard  for  Napoleon,  Mr.  Edward  Emerson  writes  in 
his  Emerson  iti  Concord,  "Any  practical  or  executive  talent  in  however  humble 
a  sphere,  even  of  cowherd  or  stable-keeper,  commanded  his  respect,  but  he  took 
interest  in  great  soldiers,  read  all  the  memoirs  of  Napoleon,  and  quotes  him  as 
often  perhaps  as  any  historical  character." 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     417 

class  everywhere,  has  pointed  out  Napoleon  as  the  incarnate 
Democrat.  He  had  their  virtues  and  their  vices;  above  all,  he 
had  their  spirit  or  aim.  That  tendency  is  material,  pointing  at  a 
sensual  success,  and  employing  the  richest  and  most  various 
means  to  that  end;  conversant  with  mechanical  powers,  highly 
intellectual,  widely  and  accurately  learned  and  skilful,  but 
subordinating  all  intellectual  and  spiritual  forces  into  means  to 
a  material  success.  To  be  the  rich  man  is  the  end.  "God  has 
granted,"  says  the  Koran,  ''to  every  people  a  prophet  in  its 
own  tongue."  Paris,  and  London,  and  New  York,  the  spirit  of 
commerce,  of  money,  and  material  power,  were  also  to  have 
their  prophet ;  and  Bonaparte  was  qualified  and  sent. 

Every  one  of  the  million  readers  of  anecdotes,  or  memoirs,  or 
lives  of  Napoleon,  delights  in  the  page,  because  he  studies  in  it 
his  own  history.  Napoleon  is  thoroughly  modern,  and,  at  the 
highest  point  of  his  fortunes,  has  the  very  spirit  of  the  news- 
papers. He  is  no  saint,  —  to  use  his  own  word,  "no  capuchin," 
and  he  is  no  hero,  in  the  high  sense.  The  man  in  the  street  finds 
in  him  the  qualities  and  powers  of  other  men  in  the  street.  He 
finds  him,  like  himself,  by  birth  a  citizen,  who,  by  very  intelli- 
gible merits,  arrived  at  such  a  commanding  position,  that  he 
could  indulge  all  those  tastes  which  the  common  man  possesses, 
but  is  obliged  to  conceal  and  deny:  good  society,  good  books, 
fast  travelling,  dress,  dinners,  servants  without  number,  per- 
sonal weight,  the  execution  of  his  ideas,  the  standing  in  the 
attitude  of  a  benefactor  to  all  persons  about  him,  the  refined 
enjoyments  of  pictures,  statues,  music,  palaces,  and  conven- 
tional honors,  —  precisely  what  is  agreeable  to  the  heart  of 
ever>^  man  in  the  nineteenth  century,  —  this  powerful  man 
possessed. 

It  is  true  that  a  man  of  Napoleon's  truth  of  adaptation  to 
the  mind  of  the  masses  around  him,  becomes  not  merely  repre- 
sentative, but  actually  a  monopolizer  and  usurper  of  other 
minds.  Thus  Mirabeau  plagiarized  every  good  thought,  every 
good  word,  that  was  spoken  in  France.  Dumont  relates,  that 
he  sat  in  the  gallery  of  the  Convention,  and  heard  Mirabeau 
make  a  speech.  It  struck  Dmnont  that  he  could  fit  it  with  a 
peroration,  which  he  wrote  in  pencil  immediately,  and  showed 
it  to  Lord  Elgin,  who  sat  by  him.  Lord  Elgin  approved  it,  and 
Dumont,  in  the  evening,  showed  it  to  Mirabeau.   Mirabeau 


4i8  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

read  it,  pronounced  it  admirable,  and  declared  he  would  incor- 
porate it  into  his  harangue  to-morrow,  to  the  Assembly.  '*It  is 
impossible,"  said  Dumont,  ''as,  unfortunately,  I  have  shown 
it  to  Lord  Elgin.''  "If  you  have  shown  it  to  Lord  Elgin,  and  to 
fifty  persons  beside,  I  shall  still  speak  it  to-morrow":  and  he 
did  speak  it,  with  much  effect,  at  the  next  day's  session.  For 
Mirabeau,  with  his  overpowering  personality,  felt  that  these 
things,  which  his  presence  inspired,  were  as  much  his  own  as  if 
he  had  said  them,  and  that  his  adoption  of  them  gave  them 
their  weight.  Much  more  absolute  and  centralizing  was  the 
successor  to  Mirabeau 's  popularity,  and  to  much  more  than  his 
predominance  in  France.  Indeed,  a  man  of  Napoleon's  stamp 
almost  ceases  to  have  a  private  speech  and  opinion.  He  is  so 
largely  receptive,  and  is  so  placed,  that  he  comes  to  be  a  bureau 
for  all  the  intelligence,  wit,  and  power,  of  the  age  and  country. 
He  gains  the  battle;  he  makes  the  code;  he  makes  the  system  of 
weights  and  measures;  he  levels  the  Alps;  he  builds  the  road. 
All  distinguished  engineers,  savans,  statists,  report  to  him :  so, 
likewise,  do  all  good  heads  in  every  kind :  he  adopts  the  best 
measures,  sets  his  stamp  on  them,  and  not  these  alone,  but 
on  every  happy  and  memorable  expression.  Every  sentence 
spoken  by  Napoleon,  and  every  line  of  his  writing,  deserves 
reading,  as  it  is  the  sense  of  France. 

Bonaparte  was  the  idol  of  common  men,  because  he  had  in 
transcendent  degree  the  qualities  and  powers  of  common  men. 
There  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  coming  down  to  the  lowest 
ground  of  politics,  for  we  get  rid  of  cant  and  hypocrisy.  Bona- 
parte wrought,  in  conunon  with  that  great  class  he  represented, 
for  power  and  wealth,  —  but  Bonaparte,  specially,  without 
any  scruple  as  to  the  means.  All  the  sentiments  which  embar- 
rass men's  pursuit  of  these  objects,  he  set  aside.  The  sentiments 
were  for  women  and  children.  Fontanes,  in  1804,  expressed 
Napoleon's  own  sense,  when,  in  behalf  of  the  Senate,  he  ad- 
dressed him,  —  ''Sire,  the  desire  of  perfection  is  the  worst 
disease  that  ever  afflicted  the  human  mind."  The  advocates  of 
liberty,  and  of  progress,  are  "ideologists";  —  a  word  of  con- 
tempt often  in  his  mouth;  —  "Necker  is  an  ideologist"; 
"Lafayette  is  an  ideologist."  ^ 

1  "The  discussion  on  Napoleon  shows  Emerson  at  his  best  as  a  connoisseur  of 
men,  and  would  alone  prove  that  he  did  not  addict  himself  to  speculation  out  of 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     419 

An  Italian  proverb,  too  well  known,  declares  that,  *'if  you 
would  succeed,  you  must  not  be  too  good.'^  It  is  an  advantage, 
wathin  certain  limits,  to  have  renounced- the  dominion  of  the 
sentiments  of  piety,  gratitude,  and  generosity;  since,  what  was 
an  impassable  bar  to  us,  and  still  is  to  others,  becomes  a  con- 
venient weapon  for  our  purposes;  just  as  the  river  which  was  a 
formidable  barrier,  winter  transforms  into  the  smoothest  of 
roads. 

Napoleon  renounced,  once  for  all,  sentiments  and  affections, 
and  would  help  himself  with  his  hands  and  his  head.  With  him 
is  no  miracle,  and  no  magic.  He  is  a  worker  in  brass,  in  iron, 
in  wood,  in  earth,  in  roads,  in  buildings,  in  money,  and  in 
troops,  and  a  very  consistent  and  wise  master- workman.  He  is 
never  weak  and  literary,  but  acts  with  the  solidity  and  the 
precision  of  natural  agents.  He  has  not  lost  his  native  sense  and 
sympathy  with  things.  Men  give  way  before  such  a  man,  as 
before  natural  events.  To  be  sure,  there  are  men  enough  who 
are  immersed  in  things,  as  farmers,  smiths,  sailors,  and  me- 
chanics generally;  and  we  know  how  real  and  soHd  such  men 
appear  in  the  presence  of  scholars  and  grammarians:  but  these 
men  ordinarily  lack  the  power  of  arrangement,  and  are  like 
hands  without  a  head.  But  Bonaparte  superadded  to  this 
mineral  and  animal  force,  insight  and  generalization,  so  that 
men  saw  in  him  combined  the  natural  and  the  intellectual 
power,  as  if  the  sea  and  land  had  taken  flesh  and  begun  to 
cipher.  Therefore  the  land  and  sea  seem  to  presuppose  him. 
He  came  unto  his  own  and  they  received  him.  This  ciphering 
operative  knows  what  he  is  working  with,  and  w^hat  is  the 
product.  He  knew  the  properties  of  gold  and  iron,  of  wheels  and 
ships,  of  troops  and  diplomatists,  and  required  that  each  should 
do  after  its  kind. 

The  art  of  war  was  the  game  in  which  he  exerted  his  arith- 
metic. It  consisted,  according  to  him,  in  having  always  more 
forces  than  the  enemy,  on  the  point  where  the  enemy  is  at- 
tacked, or  where  he  attacks;  and  his  whole  talent  is  strained  by 
endless  manoeuvre  and  evolution,  to  march  always  on  the 
enemy  at  an  angle,  and  destroy  his  forces  in  detail.  It  is  obvi- 

incapacity  or  contempt  for  the  affairs  of  the  world.  The  ideologist  judges  the 
man  of  action  more  shrewdly  and  justly  than  the  man  of  action  would  have 
judged  the  ideologist."   (Gamett,  Life  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  p.  152.) 


420  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

ous  that  a  very  small  force,  skilfully  and  rapidly  manoeuvring, 
so  as  always  to  bring  two  men  against  one  at  the  point  of  en- 
gagement, will  be  an  overmatch  for  a  much  larger  body  of  men. 

The  times,  his  constitution,  and  his  early  circumstances, 
combined  to  develop  this  pattern  democrat.  He  had  the  virtues 
of  his  class,  and  the  conditions  for  their  activity.  That  com- 
mon-sense, which  no  sooner  respects  any  end,  than  it  finds  the 
means  to  effect  it;  the  delight  in  the  use  of  means;  in  the  choice, 
simplification,  and  combining  of  means;  the  directness  and 
thoroughness  of  his  work;  the  prudence  with  which  all  was 
seen,  and  the  energy  with  which  all  was  done,  make  him  the 
natural  organ  and  head  of  what  I  may  almost  call,  from  its 
extent,  the  modern  party. 

Nature  must  have  far  the  greatest  share  in  every  success,  and 
so  in  his.  Such  a  man  was  wanted,  and  such  a  man  was  boqj; 
a  man  of  stone  and  iron,  capable  of  sitting  on  horseback  sixteen 
or  seventeen  hours,  of  going  many  days  together  without  rest 
or  food,  except  by  snatches,  and  with  the  speed  and  spring  of 
a  tiger  in  action;  a  man  not  embarrassed  by  any  scruples;  com- 
pact, instant,  selfish,  prudent,  and  of  a  perception  which  did  not 
suffer  itself  to  be  baulked  or  misled  by  any  pretences  of  others, 
or  any  superstition,  or  any  heat  or  haste  of  his  own.  "My  hand 
of  iron,"  he  said,  "was  not  at  the  extremity  of  my  arm:  it  was 
immediately  connected  with  my  head."  He  respected  the 
power  of  nature  and  fortune,  and  ascribed  to  it  his  superiority, 
instead  of  valuing  himself,  like  inferior  men,  on  his  opiniona- 
tiveness,  and  waging  war  with  nature.  His  favorite  rhetoric  lay 
in  allusion  to  his  star;  and  he  pleased  himself,  as  well  as  the 
people,  when  he  styled  himself  the  " Child  of  Destiny."  "They 
charge  me,"  he  said,  "with  the  commission  of  great  crimes: 
men  of  my  stamp  do  not  commit  crimes.  Nothing  has  been 
more  simple  than  my  elevation:  'tis  in  vain  to  ascribe  it  to 
intrigue  or  crime:  it  was  owing  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  times, 
and  to  my  reputation  of  having  fought  well  against  the  enemies 
of  my  country.  I  have  always  marched  with  the  opinion  of 
great  masses,  and  with  events.  Of  what  use,  then,  would  crimes 
be  to  me? "  Again  he  said,  speaking  of  his  son:  "  My  son  cannot 
replace  me:  I  could  not  replace  myself.  I  am  the  creature  of 
circumstances." 
-    He  had  a  directness  of  action  never  before  combined  with  so 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     421 

much  comprehension.  He  is  a  realist  terrific  to  all  talkers,  and 
confused  truth-obscuring  persons.  He  sees  where  the  matter 
hinges,  throws  himself  on  the  precise  point  of  resistance,  and 
slights  all  other  considerations.  He  is  strong  in  the  right  man- 
ner, namely,  by  insight.  He  never  blundered  into  victory,  but 
won  his  battles  in  his  head,  before  he  won  them  on  the  field. 
His  principal  means  are  in  himself.  He  asks  counsel  of  no  other. 
In  1796,  he  writes  to  the  Directory:  "I  have  conducted  the 
campaign  without  consulting  any  one.  I  should  have  done  no 
good,  if  I  had  been  under  the  necessity  of  conforming  to  the 
notions  of  another  person.  I  have  gained  some  advantages  over 
superior  forces,  and  when  totally  destitute  of  everything,  be- 
cause, in  the  persuasion  that  your  confidence  was  reposed  in 
me,  my  actions  were  as  prompt  as  my  thoughts." 

History  is  full,  down  to  this  day,  of  the  imbecility  of  kings 
and  governors.  They  are  a  class  of  persons  much  to  be  pitied, 
for  they  know  not  what  they  should  do.  The  weavers  strike  for 
bread ;  and  the  king  and  his  ministers,  not  knowing  what  to  do, 
meet  them  with  bayonets.  But  Napoleon  understood  his  busi- 
ness. Here  was  a  man  who,  in  each  moment  and  emergency, 
knew  what  to  do  next.  It  is  an  immense  comfort  and  refresh- 
ment to  the  spirits,  not  only  of  kings,  but  of  citizens.  Few  men 
have  any  next;  they  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  without  plan, 
and  are  ever  at  the  end  of  their  line,  and,  after  each  action,  wait 
for  an  impulse  from  abroad.  Napoleon  had  been  the  first  man 
of  the  world,  if  his  ends  had  been  purely  public.  As  he  is,  he 
inspires  confidence  and  vigor  by  the  extraordinary  unity  of  his 
action.  He  is  firm,  sure,  self-denying,  self -postponing,  sacrific- 
ing ever>^thing  to  his  aim,  —  money,  troops,  generals,  and  his 
own  safety  also,  to  his  aim;  not  misled,  like  common  adven- 
turers, by  the  splendor  of  his  own  means.  *' Incidents  ought 
not  to  govern  policy,"  he  said,  "but  policy,  incidents."  "To 
be  hurried  away  by  every  event,  is  to  have  no  political  system 
at  all."  His  victories  were  only  so  many  doors,  and  he  never 
for  a  moment  lost  sight  of  his  way  onward,  in  the  dazzle  and 
uproar  of  the  present  circumstance.  He  knew  what  to  do,  and 
he  flew  to  his  mark.  He  would  shorten  a  straight  line  to  come 
at  his  object.  Horrible  anecdotes  may,  no  doubt,  be  collected 
from  his  his  tor}- ,  of  the  price  at  which  he  bought  his  successes; 
but  he  must  not  therefore  be  set  down  as  cruel;  but  only  as  one 


422  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

who  knew  no  impediment  to  his  will;  not  bloodthirsty,  not 
cruel,  —  but  woe  to  what  thing  or  person  stood  in  his  way! 
Not  bloodthirsty,  but  not  sparing  of  blood,  —  and  pitiless. 
He  saw  only  the  object:  the  obstacle  must  give  way.  *'Sire, 
General  Clarke  cannot  combine  with  General  Junot,  for  the 
dreadful  fire  of  the  Austrian  battery."  —  *'Let  him  carry  the 
battery."  —  "Sire,  every  regiment  that  approaches  the  heavy 
artillery  is  sacrificed:  Sire,  what  orders?"  —  ''Forward,  for- 
ward!" Seruzier,  a  colonel  of  artillery,  gives,  in  his  Military 
Memoirs,  the  following  sketch  of  a  scene  after  the  battle  of 
AusterHtz:  "At  the  moment  in  which  the  Russian  army  was 
making  its  retreat,  painfully,  but  in  good  order,  on  the  ice  of  the 
lake,  the  Emperor  Napoleon  came  riding  at  full  speed  toward 
the  artillery.  'You  are  losing  time,'  he  cried;  'fire  upon  those 
masses;  they  must  be  ingulfed:  fire  upon  the  ice!'  The  order 
remained  unexecuted  for  ten  minutes.  In  vain  several  officers 
and  myself  were  placed  on  the  slope  of  a  hill  to  produce  the 
effect:  their  balls  and  mine  rolled  upon  the  ice,  without  break- 
ing it  up.  Seeing  that,  I  tried  a  simple  method  of  elevating  Hght 
howitzers.  The  almost  perpendicular  fall  of  the  heavy  projec- 
tiles produced  the  desired  effect.  My  method  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  adjoining  batteries,  and  in  less  than  no  time 
we  buried  "  some^  "  thousands  of  Russians  and  Austrians  under 
the  waters  of  the  lake." 

In  the  plenitude  of  his  resources,  every  obstacle  seemed  to 
vanish.  "  There  shall  be  no  Alps,"  he  said ;  and  he  built  his  per- 
fect roads,  climbing  by  graded  galleries  their  steepest  precipices, 
until  Italy  was  as  open  to  Paris  as  any  town  in  France.  He  laid 
his  bones  to,  and  wrought  for  his  crown.  Having  decided  what 
was  to  be  done,  he  did  that  with  might  and  main.  He  put  out 
all  his  strength.  He  risked  everything,  and  spared  nothing, 
neither  ammunition,  nor  money,  nor  troops,  nor  generals,  nor 
himself. 

We  like  to  see  everything  do  its  office  after  its  kind,  whether 
it  be  a  milch-cow  or  a  rattlesnake;  and,  if  fighting  be  the  best 
mode  of  adjusting  national  differences  (as  large  majorities  of 
men  seem  to  agree),  certainly  Bonaparte  was  right  in  making 
it  thorough.  "The  grand  principle  of  war,"  he  said,  "was,  that 

*  As  I  quote  at  second-hand,  and  cannot  procure  Seruzier,  I  dare  not  adopt 
the  high  figure  I  find.  [Author's  note.l 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     423 

an  army  ought  always  to  be  ready,  by  day  and  by  night,  and  at 
all  hours,  to  make  all  the  resistance  it  is  capable  of  making." 
He  never  economized  his  ammunition,  but,  on  a  hostile  posi- 
tion, rained  a  torrent  of  iron,  —  shells,  balls,  grape-shot,  —  to 
annihilate  all  defence.  On  any  point  of  resistance,  he  concen- 
trated squadron  on  squadron  in  overwhelming  numbers,  until 
it  was  swept  out  of  existence.  To  a  regiment  of  horse-chasseurs 
at  Lobenstein,  two  days  before  the  battle  of  Jena,  Napoleon 
said:  **My  lads,  you  must  not  fear  death;  when  soldiers  brave 
death,  they  drive  him  into  the  enemy's  ranks."  In  the  fury  of 
assault,  he  no  more  spared  himself.  He  went  to  the  edge  of  his 
possibility.  It  is  plain  that  in  Italy  he  did  what  he  could,  and 
all  that  he  could.  He  came,  several  times,  within  an  inch  of 
ruin;  and  his  own  person  was  all  but  lost.  He  was  flung  into 
the  marsh  at  Areola.  The  Austrians  were  between  him  and  his 
troops,  in  the  7nelee,  and  he  was  brought  off  with  desperate 
efforts.  At  Lonato,  and  at  other  places,  he  was  on  the  point  of 
being  taken  prisoner.  He  fought  sixty  battles.  He  had  never 
enough.  Each  victory  was  a  new  weapon.  "  My  power  would 
fall,  were  I  not  to  support  it  by  new  achievements.  Conquest 
has  made  me  what  I  am,  and  conquest  must  maintain  me."  He 
felt,  with  every  wise  man,  that  as  much  life  is  needed  for  con- 
servation, as  for  creation.  We  are  always  in  peril,  alw^ays  in  a 
bad  plight,  just  on  the  edge  of  destruction,  and  only  to  be 
saved  by  invention  and  courage. 

This  vigor  was  guarded  and  tempered  by  the  coldest  pru- 
dence and  punctuality.  A  thunderbolt  in  the  attack,  he  was 
found  invulnerable  in  his  intrenchments.  His  very  attack  was 
never  the  inspiration  of  courage,  but  the  result  of  calculation. 
His  idea  of  the  best  defence  consists  in  being  still  the  attacking 
party.  ^'My  ambition,"  he  says,  *'was  great,  but  was  of  a  cold 
nature."  In  one  of  his  conversations  with  Las  Casas,  he  re- 
marked, "As  to  moral  courage,  I  have  rarely  met  with  the  two- 
o'clock-in-the-moming  kind:  I  mean  unprepared  courage,  that 
which  is  necessary  on  an  unexpected  occasion;  and  which,  in 
spite  of  the  most  unforeseen  events,  leaves  full  freedom  of  judg- 
ment and  decision":  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  he 
was  himself  eminently  endowed  w^th  this  *' two-o' clock-in- the- 
morning  courage,  and  that  he  had  met  with  few  persons  equal 
to  himself  in  this  respect." 


424  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Everything  depended  on  the  nicety  of  his  combinations,  and 
the  stars  were  not  more  punctual  than  his  arithmetic.  His  per- 
sonal attention  descended  to  the  smallest  particulars.  ''At 
Montebello,  I  ordered  Kellermann  to  attack  with  eight  hun- 
dred horse,  and  with  these  he  separated  the  six  thousand 
Hungarian  grenadiers,  before  the  very  eyes  of  the  Austrian 
cavalry.  This  cavalry  was  half  a  league  off,  and  required  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  arrive  on  the  field  of  action;  and  I  have 
observed,  that  it  is  always  these  quarters  of  an  hour  that  decide 
the  fate  of  a  battle."  ''Before  he  fought  a  battle,  Bonaparte 
thought  little  about  what  he  should  do  in  case  of  success,  but 
a  great  deal  about  what  he  should  do  in  case  of  a  reverse  of 
fortune."  The  same  prudence  and  good  sense  mark  all  his 
behavior.  His  instructions  to  his  secretary  at  the  Tuileries  are 
worth  remembering.  "During  the  night,  enter  my  chamber  as 
seldom  as  possible.  Do  not  awake  me  when  you  have  any  good 
news  to  communicate;  with  that  there  is  no  hurry.  But  when 
you  bring  bad  news,  rouse  me  instantly,  for  then  there  is  not  a 
moment  to  be  lost."  It  was  a  whimsical  economy  of  the  same 
kind  which  dictated  his  practice,  when  general  in  Italy,  in 
regard  to  his  burdensome  correspondence.  He  directed  Bour- 
rienne  to  leave  all  letters  unopened  for  three  weeks,  and  then 
observed  with  satisfaction  how  large  a  part  of  the  correspond- 
ence ha(J  thus  disposed  of  itself,  and  no  longer  required  an 
answer.  His  achievement  of  business  was  immense,  and  en- 
larges the  known  powers  of  man.  There  have  been  many  work- 
ing kings,  from  Ulysses  to  William  of  Orange,  but  none  who 
accomplished  a  tithe  of  this  man's  performance. 

To  these  gifts  of  nature.  Napoleon  added  the  advantage  of 
having  been  born  to  a  private  and  humble  fortune.  In  his  later 
days,  he  had  the  weakness  of  wishing  to  add  to  his  crowns  and 
badges  the  prescription  of  aristocracy;  but  he  knew  his  debt  to 
his  austere  education,  and  made  no  secret  of  his  contempt  for 
the  born  kings,  and  for  "the  hereditary  asses,"  as  he  coarsely 
styled  the  Bourbons.  He  said  that,  "in  their  exile,  they  have 
learned  nothing  and  forgot  nothing."  Bonaparte  had  passed 
through  all  the  degrees  of  military  service,  but  also  was  citizen 
before  he  was  emperor,  and  so  has  the  key  to  citizenship.  His 
remarks  and  estimates  discover  the  information  and  justness 
of  measurement  of  the  middle  class.    Those  who  had  to  deal 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     425 

with  him,  found  that  he  was  not  to  be  imposed  upon,  but  could 
cipher  as  well  as  another  man.  This  appears  in  all  parts  of  his 
Memoirs,  dictated  at  St.  Helena.  When  the  expenses  of  the 
empress,  of  his  household,  of  his  palaces,  had  accumulated 
great  debts,  Napoleon  examined  the  bills  of  the  creditors  him- 
self, detected  overcharges  and  errors,  and  reduced  the  claims  by 
considerable  sums. 

His  grand  weapon,  namely,  the  millions  whom  he  directed, 
he  owed  to  the  representative  character  which  clothed  him. 
He  interests  us  as  he  stands  for  France  and  for  Europe;  and  he 
exists  as  captain  and  king,  only  as  far  as  the  revolution,  or  the 
interest  of  the  industrious  masses,  found  an  organ  and  a  leader 
in  him.  In  the  social  interests,  he  knew  the  meaning  and  value 
of  labor,  and  threw  himself  naturally  on  that  side.  I  Hke  an 
incident  mentioned  by  one  of  his  biographers  at  St.  Helena. 
"When  walking  with  Mrs.  Balcombe,  some  servants,  carr3dng 
heavy  boxes,  passed  by  on  the  road,  and  Mrs.  Balcombe  desired 
them,  in  rather  an  angry  tone,  to  keep  back.  Napoleon  inter- 
fered, saying,  'Respect  the  burden,  Madam.' "^  Li  the  time  of 
the  empire,  he  directed  attention  to  the  improvement  and  em- 
belHshment  of  the  markets  of  the  capital.  "The  market-place," 
he  said,  "is  the  Louvre  of  the  common  people."  The  principal 
works  that  have  survived  him  are  his  magnificent  roads.  He 
filled  the  troops  with  his  spirit,  and  a  sort  of  freedom  and  com- 
panionship grew  up  between  him  and  them,  which  the  forms  of 
his  court  never  permitted  between  the  officers  and  himself. 
They  performed,  under  his  eye,  that  which  no  others  could  do. 
The  best  document  of  his  relation  to  his  troops  is  the  order  of 
the  day  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  in  which 
Napoleon  promises  the  troops  that  he  will  keep  his  person  out 
of  reach  of  fire.  This  declaration,  which  is  the  reverse  of  that 
ordinarily  made  by  generals  and  sovereigns  on  the  eve  of  a 
battle,  sufficiently  explains  the  devotion  of  the  army  to  their 
leader. 

But  though  there  is  in  particulars  this  identity  between 
Napoleon  and  the  mass  of  the  people,  his  real  strength  lay  in 
their  conviction  that  he  was  their  representative  in  his  genius 

*  Emerson  "was  drawn  more  to  Napoleon  by  this  speech,"  says  Mr.  Edward 
Emerson,  "  than  by  any  other  story  told  of  him,  and  he  frequently  used  it  as  a 
lesson  to  his  children  and  others,  of  honor  and  consideration  for  laborers  and 
servants." 


426  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

and  aims,  not  only  when  he  courted,  but  when  he  controlled, 
and  even  when  he  decimated  them  by  his  conscriptions.  He 
knew,  as  well  as  any  Jacobin  in  France,  how  to  philosophize  on 
liberty  and  equality;  and,  when  allusion  was  made  to  the 
precious  blood  of  centuries,  which  was  spilled  by  the  killing  of 
the  Due  d'Enghien,  he  suggested,  *' Neither  is  my  blood  ditch- 
water."  The  people  felt  that  no  longer  the  throne  was  occupied, 
and  the  land  sucked  of  its  nourishment,  by  a  small  class  of 
legitimates,  secluded  from  all  community  with  the  children  of 
the  soil,  and  holding  the  ideas  and  superstitions  of  a  long- 
forgotten  state  of  society.  Instead  of  that  vampyre,  a  man  of 
themselves  held,  in  the  Tuileries,  knowledge  and  ideas  like  their 
own,  opening,  of  course,  to  them  and  their  children,  all  places 
of  power  and  trust.  The  day  of  sleepy,  selfish  policy,  ever  nar- 
rowing the  means  and  opportunities  of  young  men,  was  ended, 
and  a  day  of  expansion  and  demand  was  come.  A  market  for 
all  the  powers  and  productions  of  man  was  opened;  brilliant 
prizes  glittered  in  the  eyes  of  youth  and  talent.  The  old,  iron- 
bound,  feudal  France  was  changed  into  a  young  Ohio  or  New 
York;  and  those  who  smarted  under  the  immediate  rigors  of 
the  new  monarch,  pardoned  them,  as  the  necessary  severities 
of  the  military  system  which  had  driven  out  the  oppressor. 
And  even  when  the  majority  of  the  people  had  begun  to  ask, 
whether  they  had  really  gained  anything  under  th*e  exhausting 
levies  of  men  and  money  of  the  new  master,  —  the  whole  talent 
of  the  country,  in  every  rank  and  kindred,  took  his  part,  and 
defended  him  as  its  natural  patron.  In  1814,  when  advised  to 
rely  on  the  higher  classes,  Napoleon  said  to  those  around  him: 
"  Gentlemen,  in  the  situation  in  which  I  stand,  my  only  nobility 
is  the  rabble  of  the  Faubourgs." 

Napoleon  met  this  natural  expectation.  The  necessity  of  his 
position  required  a  hospitality  to  every  sort  of  talent,  and  its 
appointment  to  trusts;  and  his  feeling  went  along  with  this 
policy.  Like  every  superior  person,  he  undoubtedly  felt  a 
desire  for  men  and  compeers,  and  a  wish  to  measure  his  power 
with  other  masters,  and  an  impatience  of  fools  and  underHngs. 
In  Italy,  he  sought  for  men,  and  found  none.  ''  Good  God! "  he 
said,  "how  rare  men  are!  There  are  eighteen  millions  in  Italy, 
and  I  have  with  difficulty  found  two,  —  Dandolo  and  Melzi." 
In  later  years,  with  larger  experience,  his  respect  for  mankind 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD     427 

was  not  increased.  In  a  moment  of  bitterness,  he  said,  to  one 
of  his  oldest  friends:  ''Men  deserve  the  contempt  with  which 
they  inspire  me.  I  have  only  to  put  some  gold-lace  on  the  coat 
of  my  virtuous  republicans,  and  they  immediately  become  just 
what  I  wish  them."  This  impatience  at  levity  was,  however, 
an  oblique  tribute  of  respect  to  those  able  persons  who  com- 
manded his  regard,  not  only  when  he  found  them  friends  and 
coadjutors,  but  also  when  they  resisted  his  will.  He  could  not 
confound  Fox  and  Pitt,  Camot,  Lafayette,  and  Bernadotte, 
with  the  danglers  of  his  court;  and,  in  spite  of  the  detraction 
which  his  systematic  egotism  dictated  toward  the  great  cap- 
tains who  conquered  with  and  for  him,  ample  acknowledgments 
are  made  by  him  to  Lannes,  Duroc,  Kleber,  Dessaix,  Massena, 
Murat,  Ney,  and  Augereau.  If  he  felt  himself  their  patron,  and 
the  founder  of  their  fortunes,  as  when  he  said,  "I  made  my 
generals  out  of  mud,"  he  could  not  hide  his  satisfaction  in 
receiving  from  them  a  seconding  and  support  commensurate 
with  the  grandeur  of  his  enterprise.  In  the  Russian  campaign, 
he  was  so  much  impressed  by  the  courage  and  resources  of 
Marshal  Ney,  that  he  said,  "  I  have  two  hundred  millions  in  my 
coffers,  and  I  would  give  them  all  for  Ney."  The  characters 
which  he  has  drawn  of  several  of  his  marshals  are  discriminat- 
ing, and,  though  they  did  not  content  the  insatiable  vanity  of 
French  officers,  are,  no  doubt,  substantially  just.  And,  in  fact, 
every  species  of  merit  was  sought  and  advanced  under  his 
government.  ''I  know,"  he  said,  "the  depth  and  draught  of 
water  of  every  one  of  my  generals."  Natural  power  was  sure 
to  be  well  received  at  his  court.  Seventeen  men,  in  his  time, 
were  raised  from  common  soldiers  to  the  rank  of  king,  marshal, 
duke,  or  general;  and  the  crosses  of  his  Legion  of  Honor  were 
given  to  personal  valor,  and  not  to  family  connection.  ''When 
soldiers  have  been  baptized  in  the  fire  of  a  battle-field,  they 
have  all  one  rank  in  my  eyes." 

When  a  natural  king  becomes  a  titular  king,  everybody  is 
pleased  and  satisfied.  The  Revolution  entitled  the  strong  popu- 
lace of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  every  horse-boy  and 
powder-monkey  in  the  army,  to  look  on  Napoleon,  as  flesh  of 
his  flesh,  and  the  creature  of  his  party;  but  there  is  something 
in  the  success  of  grand  talent  which  enlists  a  universal  sym- 
pathy. For,  in  the  prevalence  of  sense  and  spirit  over  stupidity 


428  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

and  malversation,  all  reasonable  men  have  an  interest;  and,  as 
intellectual  beings,  we  feel  the  air  purified  by  the  electric  shock, 
when  material  force  is  overthrown  by  intellectual  energies.  As 
soon  as  we  are  removed  out  of  the  reach  of  local  and  accidental 
partialities,  man  feels  that  Napoleon  fights  for  him;  these  are 
honest  victories;  this  strong  steam-engine  does  our  work.  What- 
ever appeals  to  the  imagination,  by  transcending  the  ordinary 
limits  of  human  ability,  wonderfully  encourages  and  liberates 
us.  This  capacious  head,  revolving  and  disposing  sovereignly 
trains  of  affairs,  and  animating  such  multitudes  of  agents;  this 
eye,  which  looked  through  Europe;  this  prompt  invention;  this 
inexhaustible  resource;  —  what  events!  what  romantic  pic- 
tures! what  strange  situations!  —  when  spying  the  Alps,  by  a 
sunset  in  the  Sicilian  sea;  drawing  up  his  army  for  battle,  in 
sight  of  the  Pyramids,  and  saying  to  his  troops,  *^  From  the  tops 
of  those  pyramids,  forty  centuries  look  down  on  you";  fording 
the  Red  Sea;  wading  in  the  gulf  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez.  On  the 
shore  of  Ptolemais,  gigantic  projects  agitated  him.  ''Had  Acre 
fallen,  I  should  have  changed  the  face  of  the  world."  His  army, 
on  the  night  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  which  was  the  anniver- 
sary of  his  inauguration  as  Emperor,  presented  him  with  a 
bouquet  of  forty  standards  taken  in  the  fight.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
little  puerile,  the  pleasure  he  took  in  making  these  contrasts 
glaring;  as,  when  he  pleased  himself  with  making  kings  wait  in 
his  antechambers,  at  Tilsit,  at  Paris,  and  at  Erfurt. 

We  cannot,  in  the  universal  imbecility,  indecision,  and  indo- 
lence of  men,  sufficiently  congratulate  ourselves  on  this  strong 
and  ready  actor,  who  took  occasion  by  the  beard,  and  showed 
us  how  much  may  be  accomplished  by  the  mere  force  of  such 
virtues  as  all  men  possess  in  less  degrees;  namely,  by  punctual- 
ity, by  personal  attention,  by  courage,  and  thoroughness.  *'  The 
Austrians,"  he  said,  "do  not  know  the  value  of  time."  I  should 
cite  him,  in  his  earlier  years,  as  a  model  of  prudence.  His  power 
does  not  consist  in  any  wild  or  extravagant  force ;  in  any  enthu- 
siasm, like  Mahomet's;  or  singular  power  of  persuasion;  but  in 
the  exercise  of  common  sense  on  each  emergency,  instead  of 
abiding  by  rules  and  customs.  The  lesson  he  teaches  is  that 
which  vigor  always  teaches,  —  that  there  is  always  room  for  it. 
To  what  heaps  of  cowardly  doubts  is  not  that  man's  life  an 
answer.   When  he  appeared,  it  was  the  belief  of  all  military 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD    429 

men  that  there  could  be  nothing  new  in  war';  as  it  is  the  belief 
of  men  to-day,  that  nothing  new  can  be  undertaken  in  politics, 
or  in  church,  or  in  letters,  or  in  trade,  or  in  farming,  or  in  our 
social  manners  and  customs;  and  as  it  is,  at  all  times,  the  belief 
of  society  that  the  world  is  used  up.  But  Bonaparte  knew 
better  than  society;  and,  moreover,  knew  that  he  knew  better. 
I  think  all  men  know  better  than  they  do;  know  that  the  insti- 
tutions we  so  volubly  commend  are  go-carts  and  baubles;  but 
they  dare  not  trust  their  presentiments.  Bonaparte  relied  on 
his  own  sense,  and  did  not  care  a  bean  for  other  people's.  The 
world  treated  his  novelties  just  as  it  treats  everybody's  novel- 
ties, —  made  infinite  objection;  mustered  all  the  impediments; 
but  he  snapped  his  finger  at  their  objections.  "What  creates 
great  diflSiculty,"  he  remarks,  "in  the  profession  of  the  land 
commander,  is  the  necessity  of  feeding  so  many  men  and  ani- 
mals. If  he  allows  himself  to  be  guided  by  the  commissaries,  he 
will  never  stir,  and  all  his  expeditions  will  fail."  An  example  of 
his  common  sense  is  what  he  says  of  the  passage  of  the  Alps  in 
winter,  which  all  writers,  one  repeating  after  the  other,  had 
described  as  impracticable.  "The  winter,"  says  Napoleon,  "is 
not  the  most  unfavorable  season  for  the  passage  of  lofty  moun- 
tains. The  snow  is  then  firm,  the  weather  settled,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  fear  from  avalanches,  the  real  and  only  danger  to  be 
apprehended  in  the  Alps.  On  those  high  mountains,  there  are 
often  very  fine  days  in  December,  of  a  dry  cold,  with  extreme 
calmness  in  the  air."  Read  his  account,  too,  of  the  way  in  which 
battles  are  gained.  "In  all  battles,  a  moment  occurs,  when  the 
bravest  troops,  after  having  made  the  greatest  efforts,  feel  in- 
clined to  run.  That  terror  proceeds  from  a  want  of  confidence 
in  their  own  courage;  and  it  only  requires  a  slight  opportunity, 
a  pretence,  to  restore  confidence  to  them.  The  art  is  to  give  rise 
to  the  opportunity,  and  to  invent  the  pretence.  At  Areola,  I 
won  the  battle  with  twenty-five  horsemen.  I  seized  that  mo- 
ment of  lassitude,  gave  every  man  a  trumpet,  and  gained  the 
day  with  this  handful.  You  see  that  two  armies  are  two  bodies 
which  meet,  and  endeavor  to  frighten  each  other:  a  moment  of 
panic  occurs,  and  that  moment  must  be  turned  to  advantage. 
Wlien  a  man  has  been  present  in  many  actions,  he  distinguishes 
that  moment  without  difficulty:  it  is  as  easy  as  casting  up  an 
addition." 


430  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

This  deputy  of  the  nineteenth  century  added  to  his  gifts  a 
capacity  for  speculation  on  general  topics.  He  delighted  in 
running  through  the  range  of  practical,  of  Hterary,  and  of 
abstract  questions.  His  opinion  is  always  original,  and  to  the 
purpose.  On  the  voyage  to  Egypt,  he  liked,  after  dinner,  to  fix 
on  three  or  four  persons  to  support  a  proposition,  and  as  many 
to  oppose  it.  He  gave  a  subject,  and  the  discussions  turned  on 
questions  of  religion,  the  different  kinds  of  government,  and  the 
'art  of  war.  One  day,  he  asked,  whether  the  planets  were  inhab- 
ited? On  another,  what  was  the  age  of  the  world?  Then  he 
proposed  to  consider  the  probabihty  of  the  destruction  of  the 
globe,  either  by  water  or  by  fire:  at  another  time,  the  truth  or 
fallacy  of  presentiments,  and  the  interpretation  of  dreams.  He 
was  very  fond  of  talking  of  religion.  In  1806,  he  conversed  with 
Fournier,  Bishop  of  Montpellier,  on  matters  of  theology.  There 
were  two  points  on  which  they  could  not  agree,  viz.,  that  of 
hell,  and  that  of  salvation  out  of  the  pale  of  the  church.  The 
Emperor  told  Josephine,  that  he  disputed  like  a  devil  on  these 
two  points,  on  which  the  Bishop  was  inexorable.  To  the  phil- 
osophers he  readily  yielded  all  that  was  proved  against  religion 
as  the  work  of  men  and  time ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  material- 
ism. One  fine  night,  on  deck,  amid  a  clatter  of  materiahsm, 
Bonaparte  pointed  to  the  stars,  and  said,  "You  may  talk  as 
long  as  you  please,  gentlemen,  but  who  made  all  that?'^  He 
delighted  in  the  conversation  of  men  of  science,  particularly  of 
Monge  and  Berthollet;  but  the  men  of  letters  he  slighted; "  they 
were  manufacturers  of  phrases."  Of  medicine,  too,  he  was  fond 
of  talking,  and  with  those  of  its  practitioners  whom  he  most 
esteemed, — with  Corvisart  at  Paris,  and  with  Antonomarchi  at 
St.  Helena.  "Believe me,"  he  said  to  the  last,  "we  had  better 
leave  off  all  these  remedies :  life  is  a  fortress  which  neither  you 
nor  I  know  anything  about.  Why  throw  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
its  defence?  Its  own  means  are  superior  to  all  the  apparatus  of 
your  laboratories.  Corvisart  candidly  agreed  with  me,  that  all 
your  filthy  mixtures  are  good  for  nothing.  Medicine  is  a  collec- 
tion of  uncertain  prescriptions,  the  results  of  which,  taken 
collectively,  are  more  fatal  than  useful  to  mankind.  Water, 
air,  and  cleanliness  are  the  chief  articles  in  my  pharma- 
copoeia." 

His  memoirs,  dictated  to  Count  Montholon  and   General 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD    431 

Gourgaud,  at  St.  Helena,  have  great  value,  after  all  the  deduc- 
tion that,  it  seems,  is  to  be  made  from  them,  on  account  of  his 
known  disingenuousness.  He  has  the  good-nature  of  strength 
and  conscious  superiority.  I  admire  his  simple,  clear  narrative 
of  his  battles;  good  as  Caesar's;  his  good-natured  and  sufficiently 
respectful  account  of  Marshal  Wurmser  and  his  other  antago- 
nists, and  his  own  equaHty  as  a  writer  to  his  varying  subject. 
The  most  agreeable  portion  is  the  Campaign  in  Egypt. 

He  had  hours  of  thought  and  wisdom.  In  intervals  of  leisure, 
either  in  the  camp  or  the  palace,  Napoleon  appears  as  a  man  of 
genius,  directing  on  abstract  questions  the  native  appetite  for 
truth,  and  the  impatience  of  words,  he  was  wont  to  show  in 
war.  He  could  enjoy  every  play  of  invention,  a  romance,  a 
bon-mot,  as  well  as  a  stratagem  in  a  campaign.  He  delighted  to 
fascinate  Josephine  and  her  ladies,  in  a  dim-lighted  apartment, 
by  the  terrors  of  a  fiction,  to  which  his  voice  and  dramatic 
power  lent  every  addition. 

I  call  Napoleon  the  agent  or  attorney  of  the  middle  class  of 
modem  society;  of  the  throng  who  fill  the  markets,  shops, 
counting-houses,  manufactories,  ships,  of  the  modem  world, 
aiming  to  be  rich.  He  was  the  agitator,  the  destroyer  of  pre- 
scription, the  intemal  improver,  the  liberal,  the  radical,  the 
inventor  of  means,  the  opener  of  doors  and  markets,  the  sub- 
verter  of  monopoly  and  abuse.  Of  course,  the  rich  and  aristo- 
cratic did  not  like  him.  England,  the  centre  of  capital,  and 
Rome  and  Austria,  centres  of  tradition  and  genealogy,  opposed 
him.  The  constemation  of  the  dull  and  conservative  classes, 
the  terror  of  the  foolish  old  men  and  old  women  of  the  Roman 
conclave,  —  who  in  their  despair  took  hold  of  anything,  and 
would  cling  to  red-hot  iron,  —  the  vain  attempts  of  statists  to 
amuse  and  deceive  him,  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria  to  bribe  him; 
and  the  instinct  of  the  young,  ardent,  and  active  men,  every- 
where, which  pointed  him  out  as  the  giant  of  the  middle  class, 
make  his  history  bright  and  commanding.  He  had  the  virtues 
of  the  masses  of  his  constituents:  he  had  also  their  vices.  I  am 
sorry  that  the  brilliant  picture  has  its  reverse.  But  that  is  the 
fatal  quaHty  which  we  discover  in  our  pursuit  of  wealth,  that 
it  is  treacherous,  and  is  bought  by  the  breaking  or  weakening 
of  the  sentiments;  and  it  is  inevitable  that  we  should  find  the 
same  fact  in  the  history  of  this  champion,  who  proposed  to 


432  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

w- 

himself  simply  a  brilliant  career,  without  any  stipulation  or 
scruple  concerning  the  means. 

Bonaparte  was  singularly  destitute  of  generous  sentiments. 
The  highest-placed  individual  in  the  most  cultivated  age  and 
population  of  the  world,  —  he  has  not  the  merit  of  common 
truth  and  honesty.  He  is  unjust  to  his  generals;  egotistic,  and 
monopolizing;  meanly  stealing  the  credit  of  their  great  actions 
from  Kellermann,  from  Bemadotte;  intriguing  to  involve  his 
faithful  Junot  in  hopeless  bankruptcy,  in  order  to  drive  him  to 
a  distance  from  Paris,  because  the  familiarity  of  his  manners 
offends  the  new  pride  of  his  throne.  He  is  a  boundless  liar.  The 
official  paper,  his  Moniteurs,  and  all  his  bulletins,  are  proverbs 
for  saying  what  he  wished  to  be  believed;  and  worse,  —  he  sat, 
in  his  premature  old  age,  in  his  lonely  island,  coldly  falsifying 
facts,  and  dates,  and  characters,  and  giving  to  history  a  theatri- 
cal eclat.  Like  all  Frenchmen,  he  has  a  passion  for  stage  effect. 
Every  action  that  breathes  of  generosity  is  poisoned  by  this 
calculation.  His  star,  his  love  of  glory,  his  doctrine  of  the  im- 
mortaHty  of  the  soul,  are  all  French.  ^'  I  must  dazzle  and  aston- 
ish. If  I  were  to  give  the  liberty  of  the  press,  my  power  could 
not  last  three  days."  To  make  a  great  noise  is  his  favorite 
design.  "A  great  reputation  is  a  great  noise;  the  more  there  is 
made,  the  farther  off  it  is  heard.  Laws,  institutions,  monu- 
ments, nations,  all  fall;  but  the  noise  continues,  and  resounds 
in  after  ages."  His  doctrine  of  immortality  is  simply  fame.  His 
theory  of  influence  is  not  flattering.  ^' There  are  two  levers  for 
moving  men,  —  interest  and  fear.  Love  is  a  silly  infatuation, 
depend  upon  it.  Friendship  is  but  a  name.  I  love  nobody.  I  do 
not  even  love  my  brothers :  perhaps  Joseph,  a  little,  from  habit, 
and  because  he  is  my  elder;  and  Duroc,  I  love  him  too;  but 
why?  —  because  his  character  pleases  me:  he  is  stern  and  reso- 
lute, and,  I  believe,  the  fellow  never  shed  a  tear.  For  my  part, 
I  know  very  well  that  I  have  no  true  friends.  As  long  as  I  con- 
tinue to  be  what  I  am,  I  may  have  as  many  pretended  friends 
as  I  please.  Leave  sensibility  to  women:  but  men  should  be 
firm  in  heart  and  purpose,  or  they  should  have  nothing  to  do 
with  war  and  government."  He  was  thoroughly  unscrupulous. 
He  would  steal,  slander,  assassinate,  drown,  and  poison,  as  his 
interest  dictated.  He  had  no  generosity;  but  mere  vulgar 
hatred :  he  was  intensely  selfish :  he  was  perfidious :  he  cheated 


NAPOLEON;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  WORLD    433 

at  cards:  he  was  a  prodigious  gossip;  and  opened  letters;  and 
delighted  in  his  infamous  police;  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  joy 
when  he  had  intercepted  some  morsel  of  intelligence  concerning 
the  men  and  women  about  him,  boasting  that  "he  knew  every- 
thing"; and  interfered  with  the  cutting  the  dresses  of  the 
women;  and  listened  after  the  hurrahs  and  the  compliments  of 
the  street,  incognito.  His  manners  were  coarse.  He  treated 
women  with  low  familiarity.  He  had  the  habit  of  pulling  their 
ears,  and  pinching  their  cheeks,  when  he  was  in  good-humor, 
and  of  pulling  the  ears  and  whiskers  of  men,  and  of  striking  and 
horse-play  with  them,  to  his  last  days.  It  does  not  appear  that 
he  listened  at  keyholes,  or,  at  least,  that  he  was  caught  at  it. 
In  short,  when  you  have  penetrated  through  all  the  circles  of 
power  and  splendor,  you  were  not  dealing  with  a  gentleman, 
at  last;  but  with  an  impostor  and  a  rogue:  and  he  fully  deserves 
the  epithet  of  Jupiter  Scapin,  or  a  sort  of  Scamp  Jupiter. 

In  describing  the  two  parties  into  which  modern  society 
divides  itself,  —  the  democrat  and  the  conservative,  —  I  said, 
Bonaparte  represents  the  Democrat,  or  the  party  of  men  of 
business,  against  the  stationary  or  conservative  party.  I 
omitted  then  to  say,  what  is  material  to  the  statement,  namely, 
that  these  two  parties  differ  only  as  young  and  old.  The  demo- 
crat is  a  young  conservative;  the  conservative  is  an  old  demo- 
crat. The  aristocrat  is  the  democrat  ripe,  and  gone  to  seed, 
—  because  both  parties  stand  on  the  one  ground  of  the  su- 
preme value  of  property,  which  one  endeavors  to  get,  and  the 
other  to  keep.  Bonaparte  may  be  said  to  represent  the  whole 
history  of  this  party,  its  youth  and  its  age;  yes,  and  with  poetic 
justice,  its  fate,  in  his  own.  The  counter-revolution,  the  counter- 
party, still  waits  for  its  organ  and  representative,  in  a  lover 
and  a  man  of  truly  public  and  universal  aims. 

Here  was  an  experiment,  under  the  most  favorable  condi- 
tions, of  the  powers  of  intellect  without  conscience.  Never  was 
such  a  leader  so  endowed,  and  so  weaponed ;  never  leader  found 
such  aids  and  followers.  And  what  was  the  result  of  this  vast 
talent  and  power,  of  these  immense  armies,  burned  cities, 
squandered  treasures,  immolated  millions  of  men,  of  this  de- 
moralized Europe?  It  came  to  no  result.  All  passed  away,  like 
the  smoke  of  his  artillery,  and  left  no  trace.   He  left  France 


434  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

smaller,  poorer,  feebler,  than  he  found  it;  and  the  whole  contest 
for  freedom  was  to  be  begun  again.  The  attempt  was,  in  prin- 
ciple, suicidal.  France  served  him  with  life,  and  limb,  and 
estate,  as  long  as  it  could  identify  its  interest  with  him;  but 
when  men  saw  that  after  victory  was  another  war;  after  the 
destruction  of  armies,  new  conscriptions;  and  they  who  had 
toiled  so  desperately  were  never  nearer  to  the  reward,  —  they 
could  not  spend  what  they  had  earned,  nor  repose  on  their  down- 
beds,  nor  strut  in  their  ch§,teaux,  —  they  deserted  him.  Men 
found  that  his  absorbing  egotism  was  deadly  to  all  other  men. 
It  resembled  the  torpedo,  which  inflicts  a  succession  of  shocks 
on  any  one  who  takes  hold  of  it,  producing  spasms  which  con- 
tract the  muscles  of  the  hand,  so  that  the  man  cannot  open  his 
fingers;  and  the  animal  inflicts  new  and  more  violent  shocks, 
until  he  paralyzes  and  kills  his  victim.  So,  this  exorbitant  ego- 
tist narrowed,  impoverished,  and  absorbed  the  power  and  exist- 
ence of  those  who  served  him ;  and  the  universal  cry  of  France, 
and  of  Europe,  in  1814,  was,  ''enough  of  him":  "assez  de 
Bonaparte." 

It  was  not  Bonaparte's  fault.  He  did  all  that  in  him  lay,  to 
live  and  thrive  without  moral  principle.  It  was  the  nature  of 
things,  the  eternal  law  of  the  man  and  the  world,  which  baulked 
and  ruined  him;  and  the  result,  in  a  million  experiments  would 
be  the  same.  Every  experiment,  by  multitudes  or  by  individu- 
als, that  has  a  sensual  and  selfish  aim,  will  fail.  The  pacific 
Fourier  will  be  as  inefficient  as  the  pernicious  Napoleon.  As 
long  as  our  civiHzation  is  essentially  one  of  property,  of  fences, 
of  exclusiveness,  it  will  be  mocked  by  delusions.  Our  riches 
will  leave  us  sick;  there  will  be  bitterness  in  our  laughter;  and 
our  wine  will  burn  our  mouth.  Only  that  good  profits,  which 
we  can  taste  with  all  doors  open,  and  which  serves  all  men. 


HENRY   DAVID  THOREAU 

WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR^ 

At  a  certain  season  of  our  life  we  are  accustomed  to  consider 
every  spot  as  the  possible  site  of  a  house.  I  have  thus  surveyed 
the  country  on  every  side  within  a  dozen  miles  of  where  I  live. 
In  imagination  I  have  bought  all  the  farms  in  succession,  for  all 
were  to  be  bought,  and  I  knew  their  price.  I  walked  over  each 
farmer's  premises,  tasted  his  wild  apples,  discoursed  on  hus- 
bandry with  him,  took  his  farm  at  his  price,  at  any  price,  mort- 
gaging it  to  him  in  my  mind ;  even  put  a  higher  price  on  it,  — 
took  everything  but  a  deed  of  it,  —  took  his  word  for  his  deed, 
for  I  dearly  love  to  talk,  —  cultivated  it,  and  him  too  to  some 
extent,  I  trust,  and  withdrew  when  I  had  enjoyed  it  long 
enough,  leaving  him  to  carry  it  on.  This  experience  entitled 
me  to  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  real-estate  broker  by  my  friends. 
WTierever  I  sat,  there  I  might  live,  and  the  landscape  radiated 
from  me  accordingly.  What  is  a  house  but  a  sedes,  a  seat?  — 
better  if  a  country  seat.  I  discovered  many  a  site  for  a  house 
not  likely  to  be  soon  improved,  which  some  might  have  thought 
too  far  from  the  village,  but  to  my  eyes  the  village  was  too  far 
from  it.  Well,  there  I  might  live,  I  said;  and  there  I  did  live, 
for  an  hour,  a  summer  and  a  winter  life;  saw  how  I  could  let 
the  years  run  off,  buffet  the  winter  through,  and  see  the  spring 
come  in.  The  future  inhabitants  of  this  region,  wherever  they 
may  place  their  houses,  may  be  sure  that  they  have  been  antici- 
pated. An  afternoon  sufficed  to  layout  the  land  into  orchard, 
wood-lot,  and  pasture,  and  to  decide  what  fine  oaks  or  pines 
should  be  left  to  stand  before  the  door,  and  whence  each  blasted 
tree  could  be  seen  to  the  best  advantage;  and  then  I  let  it  lie, 
fallow  perchance,  for  a  man  is  rich  in  proportion  to  the  number 
of  things  which  he  can  afford  to  let  alone. 

^  TFa Wen,  chapter  n.  The  first  chapter,  "Economy,"  opens  with  these  words: 
"When  I  wrote  the  following  pages,  or  rather  the  bulk  of  them,  I  lived  alone,  in 
the  woods,  a  mile  from  any  neighbor,  in  a  house  which  I  had  built  myself,  on 
the  shore  of  Walden  Pond,  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  and  earned  my  liVIng  by 
the  labor  of  my  hands  only.  I  lived  there  two  years  and  two  months."  Quly, 
1845,  to  September,  1847;  the  book  itself  was  published  in  1854.) 


436  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

.My  imagination  carried  me  so  far  that  I  even  had  the  refusal 
of  several  farms,  —  the  refusal  was  all  I  wanted,  —  but  I  never 
got  my  fingers  burned  by  actual  possession.  The  nearest  that  I 
came  to  actual  possession  was  when  I  bought  the  Hollowell 
place,  and  had  begun  to  sort  my  seeds,  and  collected  materials 
with  which  to  make  a  wheelbarrow  to  carry  it  on  or  off  with; 
but  before  the  owner  gave  me  a  deed  of  it,  his  wife  —  every 
man  has  such  a  wife  —  changed  her  mind  and  wished  to  keep 
it,  and  he  offered  me  ten  dollars  to  release  him.  Now,  to  speak 
the  truth,  I  had  but  ten  cents  in  the  world,  and  it  surpassed  my 
arithmetic  to  tell,  if  I  was  that  man  who  had  ten  cents,  or  who 
had  a  farm,  or  ten  dollars,  or  all  together.  However,  I  let  him 
keep  the  ten  dollars  and  the  farm  too,  for  I  had  carried  it  far 
enough ;  or  rather,  to  be  generous,  I  sold  him  the  farm  for  just 
what  I  gave  for  it,  and,  as  he  was  not  a  rich  man,  made  him  a 
present  of  ten  dollars,  and  still  had  my  ten  cents,  and  seeds, 
and  materials  for  a  wheelbarrow  left.  I  found  thus  that  I  had 
been  a  rich  man  without  any  damage  to  my  poverty.  But  I 
retained  the  landscape,  and  I  have  since  annually  carried  off 
what  it  yielded  without  a  wheelbarrow.  With  respect  to  land- 
scapes,— 

"I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey,^ 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute." 

I  have  frequently  seen  a  poet  withdraw,  having  enjoyed  the 
most  valuable  part  of  a  farm,  while  the  crusty  farmer  supposed 
that  he  had  got  a  few  wild  apples  only.  Why,  the  owner  does 
not  know  it  for  many  years  when  a  poet  has  put  his  farm  in 
rhjnne,  the  most  admirable  kind  of  invisible  fence,  has  fairly 
impounded  it,  milked  it,  skimmed  it,  and  got  all  the  cream,  and 
left  the  farmer  only  the  skimmed  milk. 

The  real  attractions  of  the  Hollowell  farm,  to  me,  were:  its 
complete  retirement,  being  about  two  miles  from  the  village, 
half  a  mile  from  the  nearest  neighbor,  and  separated  from  the 
highway  by  a  broad  field;  its  bounding  on  the  river,  which  the 
owner  said  protected  it  by  its  fogs  from  frosts  in  the  spring, 
though  that  was  nothing  to  me;  the  gray  color  and  ruinous 
state  of  the  house  and  barn,  and  the  dilapidated  fences,  which 
put  such  an  interval  between  me  and  the  last  occupant;  the 
hollow  and  lichen-covered  apple  trees,  gnawed  by  rabbits, 
*  One  of  Thoreau's  many  occupations  was  surveying. 


WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR     437 

showing  what  kind  of  neighbors  I  should  have;  but  above  all, 
the  recollection  I  had  of  it  from  my  earliest  voyages  up  the 
river,  when  the  house  was  concealed  behind  a  dense  grove  of 
red  maples,  through  which  I  heard  the  house-dog  bark.  I  was 
in  haste  to  buy  it,  before  the  proprietor  finished  getting  out 
some  rocks,  cutting  down  the  hollow  apple  trees,  and  grubbing 
up  some  young  birches  which  had  sprung  up  in  the  pasture,  or, 
in  short,  had  made  any  more  of  his  improvements.  To  enjoy 
these  advantages  I  was  ready  to  carr}^  it  on;  like  Atlas,  to  take 
the  world  on  my  shoulders,  —  I  never  heard  what  compensa- 
tion he  received  for  that,  —  and  do  all  those  things  which  had 
no  other  motive  or  excuse  but  that  I  might  pay  for  it  and  be 
unmolested  in  my  possession  of  it;  for  I  knew  all  the  while  that 
it  would  yield  the  most  abundant  crop  of  the  kind  I  wanted,  if 
I  could  only  afford  to  let  it  alone.  But  it  turned  out  as,  I  have 
said. 

All  that  I  could  say,  then,  with  respect  to  farming  on  a  large 
scale  —  I  have  always  cultivated  a  garden  —  was,  that  I  had 
had  my  seeds  ready.  Many  think  that  seeds  improve  with  age. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  time  discriminates  between  the  good  and 
the  bad ;  and  when  at  last  I  shall  plant,  I  shall  be  less  likely  to 
be  disappointed.  But  I  would  say  to  my  fellows,  once  for  all, 
As  long  as  possible  live  free  and  imcommitted.  It  makes  but 
little  difTerence  whether  you  are  committed  to  a  farm  or  the 
county  jail. 

Old  Cato,  whose  De  Re  Rustled  is  my  Cultivator,  says,  —  and 
the  only  translation  I  have  seen  makes  sheer  nonsense  of  the 
passage,  —  ''When  you  think  of  getting  a  farm  turn  it  thus  in 
your  mind,  not  to  buy  greedily;  nor  spare  your  pains  to  look 
at  it,  and  do  not  think  it  enough  to  go  round  it  once.  The 
oftener  you  go  there  the  more  it  will  please  you,  if  it  is  good." 
I  think  I  shall  not  buy  greedily,  but  go  round  and  round  it  as 
long  as  I  live,  and  be  buried  in  it  first,  that  it  may  please  me 
the  more  at  last. 

The  present  was  my  next  experiment  of  this  kind,  which  I 
purpose  to  describe  more  at  length,  for  convenience  putting  the 
experience  of  two  years  into  one.  As  I  have  said,  I  do  not  pro- 
pose to  write  an  ode  to  dejection,^  but  to  brag  as  lustily  as 
*  The  title  of  a  poem  by  Coleridge, 


438  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

chanticleer  in  the  morning,  standing  on  his  roost,  if  only  to 
wake  my  neighbors  up. 

When  first  I  took  up  my  abode  in  the  woods,  that  is,  began  to 
spend  my  nights  as  well  as  days  there,  which,  by  accident,  was 
on  Independence  Day,  or  the  Fourth  of  July,  1845,  ^7  house 
was  not  finished  for  winter,  but  was  merely  a  defence  against 
the  rain,  without  plastering  or  chimney,  the  walls  being  of 
rough,  weather-stained  boards,  with  wide  chinks,  which  made 
it  cool  at  night.  The  upright  white  hewn  studs  and  freshly 
planed  door  and  window  casings  gave  it  a  clean  and  airy  look, 
especially  in  the  morning,  when  its  timbers  were  saturated  with 
dew,  so  that  I  fancied  that  by  noon  some  sweet  gum  would  ex- 
ude from  them.  To  my  imagination  it  retained  throughout  the 
day  more  or  less  of  this  auroral  character,  reminding  me  of  a 
certain  house  on  a  mountain  which  I  had  visited  a  year  before. 
This  was  an  airy  and  unplastered  cabin,  fit  to  entertain  a  travel- 
ling god,  and  where  a  goddess  might  trail  her  garments.  The 
winds  which  passed  over  my  dwelling  were  such  as  sweep  over 
the  ridges  of  mountains,  bearing  the  broken  strains,  or  celestial 
parts  only,  of  terrestrial  music.  The  morning  wind  forever 
blows,  the  poem  of  creation  is  uninterrupted;  but  few  are  the 
ears  that  hear  it.  Olympus  is  but  the  outside  of  the  earth 
everywhere. 

The  only  house  I  had  been  the  owner  of  before,  if  I  except  a 
boat,  was  a  tent,  which  I  used  occasionally  when  making  excur- 
sions in  the  summer,  and  this  is  still  rolled  up  in  my  garret;  but 
the  boat,  after  passing  from  hand  to  hand,  has  gone  down  the 
stream  of  time.  With  this  more  substantial  shelter  about  me,  I 
had  made  some  progress  toward  settling  in  the  world.  This 
frame,  so  slightly  clad,  was  a  sort  of  crystallization  around  me, 
and  reacted  on  the  builder.  It  was  suggestive  somewhat  as  a 
picture  in  outlines.  I  did  not  need  to  go  outdoors  to  take  the 
air,  for  the  atmosphere  within  had  lost  none  of  its  freshness. 
It  was  not  so  much  within-doors  as  behind  a  door  where  I  sat, 
even  in  the  rainiest  weather.  The  Harivansa  ^  says,  "An  abode 
without  birds  is  like  a  meat  without  seasoning."  Such  was  not 
my  abode,  for  I  found  myself  suddenly  neighbor  to  the  birds; 
not  by  having  imprisoned  one,  but  having  caged  myself  near 
them.  I  was  not  only  nearer  to  some  of  those  which  commonly 
*  One  of  the  sacred  books  of  the  Hindoos. 


WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR     439 

frequent  the  garden  and  the  orchard,  but  to  those  wilder  and 
more  thrilling  songsters  of  the  forest  which  never,  or  rarely, 
serenade  a  villager,  —  the  wood  thrush,  the  veery,  the  scarlet 
tanager,  the  field  sparrow,  the  whip-poor-will,  and  many  others. 

I  was  seated  by  the  shore  of  a  small  pond,  about  a  mile  and 
a  half  south  of  the  village  of  Concord  and  somewhat  higher 
than  it,  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  wood  between  that  town 
and  Lincoln,  and  about  two  miles  south  of  that  our  only  field 
known  to  fame,  Concord  Battle  Ground;  but  I  was  so  low  in 
the  woods  that  the  opposite  shore,  half  a  mile  off,  like  the  rest, 
covered  with  wood,  was  my  most  distant  horizon.  For  the  first 
week,  whenever  I  looked  out  on  the  pond  it  impressed  me  like 
a  tarn  high  up  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  its  bottom  far  above 
the  surface  of  other  lakes,  and,  as  the  sun  arose,  I  saw  it  throw- 
ing off  its  nightly  clothing  of  mist,  and  here  and  there,  by 
degrees,  its  soft  ripples  or  its  smooth  reflecting  surface  was  re- 
vealed, while  the  mists,  like  ghosts,  were  stealthily  withdrawing 
in  every  direction  into  the  woods,  as  at  the  breaking  up  of  some 
nocturnal  conventicle.  The  very  dew  seemed  to  hang  upon  the 
trees  later  into  the  day  than  usual,  as  on  the  sides  of  mountains. 

This  small  lake  was  of  most  value  as  a  neighbor  in  the  inter- 
vals of  a  gentle  rain-storm  in  August,  when,  both  air  and  water 
being  perfectly  still,  but  the  sky  overcast,  mid-aftemoon  had 
all  the  serenity  of  evening,  and  the  wood  thrush  sang  around, 
and  was  heard  from  shore  to  shore.  A  lake  like  this  is  never 
smoother  than  at  such  a  time;  and  the  clear  portion  of  the  air 
above  it  being  shallow  and  darkened  by  clouds,  the  water,  full 
of  hght  and  reflections,  becomes  a  lower  heaven  itself  so  much 
the  more  important.  From  a  hill-top  near  by,  where  the  wood 
had  been  recently  cut  off,  there  was  a  pleasing  vista  southward 
across  the  pond,  through  a  wide  indentation  in  the  hills  which 
form  the  shore  there,  where  their  opposite  sides  sloping  toward 
each  other  suggested  a  stream  flowing  out  in  that  direction 
through  a  wooded  valley,  but  stream  there  was  none.  That 
way  I  looked  between  and  over  the  near  green  hills  to  some 
distant  and  higher  ones  in  the  horizon,  tinged  with  blue.  In- 
deed, by  standing  on  tiptoe  I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  of 
the  peaks  of  the  still  bluer  and  more  distant  mountain  ranges 
in  the  northwest,  those  true-blue  coins  from  heaven's  own  mint, 
and  also  of  some  portion  of  the  village.  But  in  other  directions, 


440  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

even  from  this  point,  I  could  not  see  over  or  beyond  the  woods 
which  surrounded  me.  It  is  well  to  have  some  water  in  your 
neighborhood,  to  give  buoyancy  to  and  float  the  earth.  One 
value  even  of  the  smallest  well  is,  that  when  you  look  into  it 
you  see  that  earth  is  not  continent  but  insular.  This  is  as  impor- 
tant as  that  it  keeps  butter  cool.  When  I  looked  across  the  pond 
from  this  peak  toward  the  Sudbury  meadows,  which  in  time  of 
flood  I  distinguished  elevated  perhaps  by  a  mirage  in  their 
seething  valley,  like  a  coin  in  a  basin,  all  the  earth  beyond  the 
pond  appeared  like  a  thin  crust  insulated  and  floated  even  by 
this  small  sheet  of  intervening  water,  and  I  was  reminded  that 
this  on  which  I  dwelt  was  but  dry  land. 

Though  the  view  from  my  door  was  still  more  contracted,  I 
did  not  feel  crowded  or  confined  in  the  least.  There  was  pasture 
enough  for  my  imagination.  The  low  shrub  oak  plateau  to 
which  the  opposite  shore  arose  stretched  away  toward  the 
prairies  of  the  West  and  the  steppes  of  Tartary,  affording  ample 
room  for  all  the  roving  families  of  men.  ''  There  are  none  happy 
in  the  world  but  beings  who  enjoy  freely  a  vast  horizon,"  —  said 
Damodara,^  when  his  herds  required  new  and  larger  pastures. 

Both  place  and  time  were  changed,  and  I  dwelt  nearer  to 
those  parts  of  the  universe  and  to  those  eras  in  history  which 
had  most  attracted  me.  Where  I  lived  was  as  far  off  as  many  a 
region  viewed  nightly  by  astronomers.  We  are  wont  to  imagine 
rare  and  delectable  places  in  some  remote  and  more  celestial 
corner  of  the  system,  behind  the  constellation  of  Cassiopeia's 
Chair,  far  from  noise  and  disturbance.  I  discovered  that  my 
house  actually  had  its  site  in  such  a  withdrawn,  but  forever 
new  and  unprofaned,  part  of  the  universe.  If  it  were  worth  the 
while  to  settle  in  those  parts  near  to  the  Pleiades  or  the  Hyades, 
to  Aldebaran  or  Altair,  then  I  was  really  there,  or  at  an  equal 
remoteness  from  the  life  which  I  had  left  behind,  dwindled  and 
twinkling  with  as  fine  a  ray  to  my  nearest  neighbor,  and  to  be 
seen  only  in  moonless  nights  by  him.  Such  was  that  part  of 
creation  where  I  had  squatted;  — 

"There  was  a  shepherd  that  did  live, 
And  held  his  thoughts  as  high 
As  were  the  mounts  whereon  his  flocks 
Did  hourly  feed  him  by." 

*  Krishna,  a  Hindoo  deity. 


WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR     441 

What  should  we  think  of  the  shepherd's  life  if  his  flocks  always 
wandered  to  higher  pastures  than  his  thoughts? 

Every  morning  was  a  cheerful  invitation  to  make  my  life  of 
equal  simplicity,  and  I  may  say  innocence,  with  Nature  herself. 
I  have  been  as  sincere  a  worshipper  of  Aurora  as  the  Greeks. 
I  got  up  early  and  bathed  in  the  pond;  that  was  a  religious 
exercise,  and  one  of  the  best  things  which  I  did.  They  say  that 
characters  were  engraven  on  the  bathing  tub  of  King  Tching- 
thang  to  this  effect:  "Renew  thyself  completely  each  day;  do 
it  again,  and  again,  and  forever  again."  I  can  understand  that. 
Morning  brings  back  the  heroic  ages.  I  was  as  much  affected 
by  the  faint  hum  of  a  mosquito  making  its  invisible  and  un- 
imaginable tour  through  my  apartment  at  earliest  dawn,  when 
I  was  sitting  with  door  and  windows  open,  as  I  could  be  by  any 
trumpet  that  ever  sang  of  fame.  It  was  Homer's  requiem ;  itself 
an  Iliad  and  Odyssey  in  the  air,  singing  its  own  wrath  and 
wanderings.^  There  was  something  cosmical  about  it;  a  standing 
advertisement,  till  forbidden, ^  of  the  everlasting  vigor  and  fer- 
tility of  the  world.  The  morning,  which  is  the  most  memorable 
season  of  the  day,  is  the  awakening  hour.  Then  there  is  least 
somnolence  in  us;  and  for  an  hour,  at  least,  some  part  of  us 
awakes  which  slumbers  all  the  rest  of  the  day  and  night.  Little 
is  to  be  expected  of  that  day,  if  it  can  be  called  a  day,  to  which 
we  are  not  awakened  by  our  Genius,  but  by  the  mechanical 
nudgings  of  some  servitor,  are  not  awakened  by  our  o\\ti  newly 
acquired  force  and  aspirations  from  within,  accompanied  by 
the  undulations  of  celestial  music,  instead  of  factory  bells,  and 
a  fragrance  filling  the  air  —  to  a  higher  life  than  we  fell  asleep 
from;  and  thus  the  darkness  bear  its  fruit,  and  prove  itself  to  be 
good,  no  less  than  the  light.  That  man  who  does  not  believe 
that  each  day  contains  an  earlier,  more  sacred,  and  auroral 
hour  than  he  has  yet  profaned,  has  despaired  of  life,  and  is  pur- 
suing a  descending  and  darkening  way.  After  a  partial  cessa- 
tion of  his  sensuous  life,  the  soul  of  man,  or  its  organs  rather, 
are  reinvigorated  each  day,  and  his  Genius  tries  again  what 
noble,  life  it  can  make.  All  memorable  events,  I  should  say, 
transpire  in  morning  time  and  in  a  morning  atmosphere.  The 
Vedas  say,  "All  intelligences  awake  with  the  morning."  Poe- 

*  The  wrath  of  Achilles  and  the  wanderings  of  Ulysses. 

'  A  phrase  used  by  printers  to  indicate  a  standing  advertisement. 


442  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

try  and  art,  and  the  fairest  and  most  memorable  of  the  actions 
of  men,  date  from  such  an  hour.  All  poets  and  heroes,  like 
Memnon,  are  the  children  of  Aurora,  and  emit  their  music  at 
sunrise.^  To  him  whose  elastic  and  vigorous  thought  keeps  pace 
with  the  sun,  the  day  is  a  perpetual  morning.  It  matters  not 
what  the  clocks  say  or  the  attitudes  and  labors  of  men.  Morn- 
ing is  when  I  am  awake  and  there  is  a  dawn  in  me.  Moral 
reform  is  the  effort  to  throw  off  sleep.  Why  is  it  that  men  give 
so  poor  an  account  of  their  day  if  they  have  not  been  slumber- 
ing? They  are  not  such  poor  calculators.  If  they  had  not  been 
overcome  with  drowsiness,  they  would  have  performed  some- 
thing. The  millions  are  awake  enough  for  physical  labor;  but 
only  one  in  a  million  is  awake  enough  for  effective  intellectual 
exertion,  only  one  in  a  hundred  millions  to  a  poetic  or  divine 
life.  To  be  awake  is  to  be  alive.  I  have  never  yet  met  a  man 
who  was  quite  awake.  How  could  I  have  looked  him  in  the  face? 
We  must  learn  to  reawaken  and  keep  ourselves  awake,  not 
by  mechanical  aids,  but  by  an  infinite  expectation  of  the  dawn, 
which  does  not  forsake  us  in  our  soundest  sleep.  I  know  of  no 
more  encouraging  fact  than  the  unquestionable  ability  of  man 
to  elevate  his  life  by  a  conscious  endeavor.  It  is  something  to 
be  able  to  paint  a  particular  picture,  or  to  carve  a  statue,  and 
so  to  make  a  few  objects  beautiful;  but  it  is  far  more  glorious 
to  carve  and  paint  the  very  atmosphere  and  medium  through 
which  we  look,  which  morally  we  can  do.  To  affect  the  quality 
of  the  day,  that  is  the  highest  of  arts.  Every  man  is  tasked  to 
make  his  life,  even  in  its  details,  worthy  of  the  contemplation 
of  his  most  elevated  and  critical  hour.  If  we  refused,  or  rather 
used  up,  such  paltry  information  as  we  get,  the  oracles  would 
distinctly  inform  us  how  this  might  be  done. 

1  went  to  the  woods  because  I  wished  to  live  deliberately,  to 
front  only  the  essential  facts  of  life,  and  see  if  I  could  not  learn 
what  it  had  to  teach,  and  not,  when  I  came  to  die,  discover  that 
I  had  not  lived.  ^  I  did  not  wish  to  live  what  was  not  life,  living 

*  According  to  fable,  when  the  rays  of  the  sun  reached  the  statue  of 
Memnon,  it  gave  forth  music. 

2  Cf.  the  statement  in  chapter  i:  "My  purpose  in  going  to  Walden  Pond  was 
not  to  live  cheaply  nor  to  live  dearly  there,  but  to  transact  some  private  business 
with  the  fewest  obstacles;  to  be  hindered  from  accomplishing  which  for  want  of 
a  little  common  sense,  a  little  enterprise  and  business  talent,  appeared  not  so  sad 
as  foolish." 


WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR     443 

is  so  dear;  nor  did  I  wish  to  practice  resignation,  unless  it  was 
quite  necessary.  I  wanted  to  live  deep  and  suck  out  all  the 
marrow  of  life,  to  live  so  sturdily  and  Spartan-like  as  to  put  to 
rout  all  that  was  not  Kfe,  to  cut  a  broad  swath  and  shave  close, 
to  drive  life  into  a  comer,  and  reduce  it  to  its  lowest  terms,  and, 
if  it  proved  to  be  mean,  why  then  to  get  the  whole  and  genuine 
meanness  of  it,  and  publish  its  meanness  to  the  world ;  or  if  it 
were  sublime,  to  know  it  by  experience,  and  be  able  to  give  a 
true  account  of  it  in  my  next  excursion.  For  most  men,  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  are  in  a  strange  uncertainty  about  it,  whether  it  is 
of  the  devil  or  of  God,  and  have  somewhat  hastily  concluded 
that  it  is  the  chief  end  of  man  here  to  "glorify  God  and  enjoy 
him  forever." 

Still  we  Hve  meanly,  like  ants;  though  the  fable  tells  us  that 
we  were  long  ago  changed  into  men ;  like  pygmies  we  fight  with 
cranes;^  it  is  error  upon  error,  and  clout  upon  clout,  and  our 
best  virtue  has  for  its  occasion  a  superfluous  and  e\dtable 
wretchedness.  Our  life  is  frittered  away  by  detail.  An  honest 
man  has  hardly  need  to  count  more  than  his  ten  fingers,  or  in 
extreme  cases  he  may  add  his  ten  toes,  and  lump  the  rest.  Sim- 
pHcity,  simplicity,  simplicity!  I  say,  let  your  affairs  be  as  two 
or  three,  and  not  a  hundred  or  a  thousand;  instead  of  a  milHon 
count  half  a  dozen,  and  keep  your  accounts  on  your  thumb- 
nail. In  the  midst  of  this  chopping  sea  of  civilized  life,  such  are 
the  clouds  and  storms  and  quicksands  and  thousand-and-one 
items  to  be  allowed  for,  that  a  man  has  to  live,  if  he  would  not 
founder  and  go  to  the  bottom  and  not  make  his  port  at  all,  by 
dead  reckoning,  and  he  must  be  a  great  calculator  indeed  who 
succeeds.  SimpHfy,  simplify.  Instead  of  three  meals  a  day,  if 
it  be  necessar}^  eat  but  one;  instead  of  a  hundred  dishes,  five; 
and  reduce  other  things  in  proportion.  Our  life  is  like  a  German 
Confederacy,  made  up  of  petty  states,  with  its  boundary  for- 
ever fluctuating,  so  that  even  a  German  cannot  tell  you  how  it 
is  bounded  at  any  moment.  The  nation  itself,  with  all  its  so-- 
called  internal  improvements,  which,  by  the  way  are  all  ex- 
ternal and  superficial,  is  just  such  an  unwieldy  and  overgrown 
establishment,  cluttered  with  furniture  and  tripped  up  by  its 
own  traps,  ruined  by  luxury  and  heedless  expense,  by  want  of 
calculation  and  a  worthy  aim,  as  the  million  households  in  the 

1  Iliadj  m,  3-7. 


444  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

land;  and  the  only  cure  for  it,  as  for  them,  is  in  a  rigid  economy, 
a  stern  and  more  than  Spartan  simplicity  of  life  and  elevation 
of  purpose.  It  lives  too  fast.  Men  think  that  it  is  essential  that 
the  Nation  have  commerce,  and  export  ice,  and  talk  through  a 
telegraph,  and  ride  thirty  miles  an  hour,  without  a  doubt, 
whether  they  do  or  not;  but  whether  we  should  live  like  baboons 
or  like  men,  is  a  little  uncertain.  If  we  do  not  get  out  sleepers, 
and  forge  rails,  and  devote  days  and  nights  to  the  work,  but  go 
to  tinkering  upon  our  lives  to  improve  them,  who  will  build  rail- 
roads? And  if  railroads  are  not  built,  how  shall  we  get  to  heaven 
in  season?  But  if  we  stay  at  home  and  mind  our  business, 
who  will  want  railroads?  We  do  not  ride  on  the  railroad;  it 
rides  upon  us.  Did  you  ever  think  what  those  sleepers  are  that 
underhe  the  railroad?  Each  one  is  a  man,  an  Irishman,  or  a 
Yankee  man.  The  rails  are  laid  on  them,  and  they  are  covered 
with  sand,  and  the  cars  run  smoothly  over  them.  They  are 
sound  sleepers,  I  assure  you.  And  every  few  years  a  new  lot  is 
laid  down  and  run  over;  so  that,  if  some  have  the  pleasure  of 
riding  on  a  rail,  others  have  the  misfortune  to  be  ridden  upon. 
And  when  they  run  over  a  man  that  is  walking  in  his  sleep,  a 
supernumerary  sleeper  in  the  wrong  position,  and  wake  him 
up,  they  suddenly  stop  the  cars,  and  make  a  hue  and  cry  about 
it,  as  if  this  were  an  exception.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  it  takes 
a  gang  of  men  for  every  five  miles  to  keep  the  sleepers  down  and 
level  in  their  beds  as  it  is,  for  this  is  a  sign  that  they  may  some- 
time get  up  again. 

Why  should  we  live  with  such  hurry  and  waste  of  life?  We 
are  determined  to  be  starved  before  w^e  are  hungry.  Men  say 
that  a  stitch  in  time  saves  nine,  and  so  they  take  a  thousand 
stitches  to-day  to  save  nine  to-morrow.  As  for  work,  we  have  n't 
any  of  any  consequence.  We  have  the  Saint  Vitus's  dance,  and 
cannot  possibly  keep  our  heads  still.  If  I  should  only  give  a 
few  pulls  at  the  parish  bell-rope,  as  for  a  fire,  that  is,  without 
setting  the  bell,  there  is  hardly  a  man  on  his  farm  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Concord,  notwithstanding  that  press  of  engagements 
which  w^as  his  excuse  so  many  times  this  morning,  nor  a  boy, 
nor  a  woman,  I  might  almost  say,  but  would  forsake  all  and 
follow  that  sound,  not  mainly  to  save  property  from  the  flames, 
but,  if  we  will  confess  the  truth,  much  more  to  see  it  burn, 
since  burn  it  must,  and  we,  be  it  known,  did  not  set  it  on  fire, 


WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR     445 

—  or  to  see  it  put  out,  and  have  a  hand  in  it,  if  that  is  done  as 
handsomely;  yes,  even  if  it  were  the  parish  church  itself. 
Hardly  a  man  takes  a  half-hour's  nap  after  dinner,  but  when 
he  wakes  he  holds  up  his  head  and  asks,  ''What's  the  news?" 
as  if  the  rest  of  mankind  had  stood  his  sentinels.  Some  give 
directions  to  be  waked  every  half-hour,  doubtless  for  no  other 
purpose;  and  then,  to  pay  for  it,  they  tell  what  they  have 
dreamed.  After  a  night's  sleep  the  news  is  as  indispensable  as 
the  breakfast.  ''Pray  tell  me  anything  new  that  has  happened 
to  a  man  anywhere  on  this  globe,"  —  and  he  reads  it  over  his 
coffee  and  rolls,  that  a  man  has  had  his  eyes  gouged  out  this 
morning  on  the  Wachito  River;  never  dreaming  the  while  that 
he  lives  in  the  dark  unfathomed  mammoth  cave  of  this  world, 
and  has  but  the  rudiment  of  an  eye  himself. 

For  my  part,  I  could  easily  do  without  the  post-office.  I 
think  that  there  are  very  few  important  communications 
made  through  it.  To  speak  critically,  I  never  received  more 
than  one  or  two  letters  in  my  life  —  I  wrote  this  some  years 
ago  —  that  were  worth  the  postage.  The  penny-post  is,  com- 
monly, an  institution  through  which  you  seriously  offer  a  man 
that  penny  for  his  thoughts  which  is  so  often  safely  offered  in 
jest.  And  I  am  sure  that  I  never  read  any  memorable  news  in  a 
new^spaper.  If  we  read  of  one  man  robbed,  or  murdered,  or 
killed  by  accident,  or  one  house  burned,  or  one  vessel  wrecked, 
or  one  steamboat  blown  up,  or  one  cow  run  over  on  the  Western 
Railroad,  or  one  mad  dog  killed,  or  one  lot  of  grasshoppers  in 
the  winter,  —  we  never  need  read  of  another.  One  is  enough. 
If  you  are  acquainted  with  the  principle,  what  do  you  care  for  a 
myriad  instances  and  applications?  To  a  philosopher  all  news, 
as  it  is  called,  is  gossip,  and  they  who  edit  and  read  it  are  old 
women  over  their  tea.  Yet  not  a  few  are  greedy  after  this 
gossip.  There  was  such  a  rush,  as  I  hear,  the  other  day  at  one 
of  the  offices  to  learn  the  foreign  news  by  the  last  arrival,  that 
several  large  squares  of  plate  glass  belonging  to  the  establish- 
ment were  broken  by  the  pressure,  —  news  which  I  seriously 
think  a  ready  wit  might  write  a  twelvemonth,  or  twelve  years, 
beforehand  with  sufficient  accuracy.  As  for  Spain,  for  instance, 
if  you  know  how  to  throw  in  Don  Carlos  and  the  Infanta,  and 
Don  Pedro  and  Seville  and  Granada,  from  time  to  time  in  the 
right  proportions,  —  they  may  have  changed  the  names  a  little 


446  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

since  I  saw  the  papers,  —  and  serve  up  a  bull-fight  when  other 
entertainments  fail,  it  will  be  true  to  the  letter,  and  give  us  as 
good  an  idea  of  the  exact  state  or  ruin  of  things  in  Spain  as  the 
most  succinct  and  lucid  reports  under  this  head  in  the  news- 
papers: and  as  for  England,  almost  the  last  significant  scrap  of 
news  from  that  quarter  was  the  revolution  of  1649;  and  if  you 
have  learned  the  history  of  her  crops  for  an  average  year,  you 
never  need  attend  to  that  thing  again,  unless  your  speculations 
are  of  a  merely  pecuniary  character.  If  one  may  judge  who 
rarely  looks  into  the  newspapers,  nothing  new  does  ever  happen 
in  foreign  parts,  a  French  revolution  not  excepted. 

What  news !  how  much  more  important  to  know  what  that  is 
which  was  never  old  I  ''Kieou-he-yu  (great  dignitary  of  the 
state  of  Wei)  sent  a  man  to  Khoung-tseu  to  know  his  news. 
Khoung-tseu  caused  the  messenger  to  be  seated  near  him,  and 
questioned  him  in  these  terms:  What  is  your  master  doing? 
The  messenger  answered  with  respect:  My  master  desires  to 
diminish  the  number  of  his  faults,  but  he  cannot  come  to  the 
end  of  them.  The  messenger  being  gone,  the  philosopher  re- 
marked: What  a  worthy  messenger!  What  a  worthy  messen- 
ger!" The  preacher,  instead  of  vexing  the  ears  of  drowsy 
farmers  on  their  day  of  rest  at  the  end  of  the  week,  —  for  Sun- 
day is  the  fit  conclusion  of  an  ill-spent  week,  and  not  the  fresh 
and  brave  beginning  of  a  new  one,  —  with  this  one  other 
draggle-tail  of  a  sermon,  should  shout  with  thundering  voice, 
"Pause!  Avast!  Why  so  seeming  fast,  but  deadly  slow? " 

Shams  and  delusions  are  esteemed  for  soundest  truths,  while 
reality  is  fabulous.  If  men  would  steadily  observe  realities 
only,  and  not  allow  themselves  to  be  deluded,  life,  to  compare 
it  with  such  things  as  we  know,  would  be  like  a  fairy  tale  and 
the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments.  If  we  respected  only 
what  is  inevitable  and  has  a  right  to  be,  music  and  poetry 
would  resound  along  the  streets.  When  we  are  unhurried  and 
wise,  we  perceive  that  only  great  and  worthy  things  have  any 
permanent  and  absolute  existence,  that  petty  fears  and  petty 
pleasures  are  but  the  shadow  of  the  reality.  This  is  always 
exhilarating  and  sublime.  By  closing  the  eyes  and  slumbering, 
and  consenting  to  be  deceived  by  shows,  men  establish  and 
confirm  their  daily  life  of  routine  and  habit  everywhere,  which 
still  is  built  on  purely  illusory  foundations.  Children,  who  play 


WHERE  I  LIVED,  AND  WHAT  I  LIVED  FOR     447 

life,  discern  its  true  law  and  relations  more  clearly  than  men, 
who  fail  to  live  it  worthily,  but  who  think  that  they  are  wiser 
by  experience,  that  is,  by  failure.  I  have  read  in  a  Hindoo  book, 
that  "there  was  a  king's  son,  who,  being  expelled  in  infancy 
from  his  native  city,  was  brought  up  by  a  forester,  and,  growing 
up  to  maturity  in  that  state,  imagined  himself  to  belong  to  the 
barbarous  race  with  which  he  lived.  One  of  his  father's  minis- 
ters having  discovered  him,  revealed  to  him  what  he  was,  and 
the  misconception  of  his  character  was  removed,  and  he  knew 
himself  to  be  a  prince.  So  soul,"  continues  the  Hindoo  phi- 
losopher, "from  the  circumstances  in  which  it  is  placed,  mis- 
takes its  own  character,  until  the  truth  is  revealed  to  it  by 
some  holy  teacher,  and  then  it  knows  itself  to  be  Brahme.'*^  I 
perceive  that  we  inhabitants  of  New  England  live  this  mean 
life  that  we  do  because  our  vision  does  not  penetrate  the  surface 
of  things.  We  think  that  that  is  which  appears  to  be.  If  a  man 
should  walk  through  this  town  and  see  only  the  reality,  where, 
think  you,  would  the  "Mill-dam"  ^  go  to?  If  he  should  give  us 
an  account  of  the  realities  he  beheld  there,  we  should  not  recog- 
nize the  place  in  his  description.  Look  at  a  meeting-house,  or 
a  court-house,  or  a  jail,  or  a  shop,  or  a  dwelling-house,  and  say 
what  that  thing  really  is  before  a  true  gaze,  and  they  would  all 
go  to  pieces  in  your  account  of  them.  Men  esteem  truth  remote, 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  system,  behind  the  farthest  star,  before 
Adam  and  after  the  last  man.  In  eternity  there  is  indeed  some- 
thing true  and  sublime.  But  all  these  times  and  places  and 
occasions  are  now  and  here.  God  himself  culminates  in  the 
present  moment,  and  will  never  be  more  divine  in  the  lapse  of 
all  the  ages.  And  we  are  enabled  to  apprehend  at  all  what  is 
sublime  and  noble  only  by  the  perpetual  instilling  and  drench- 
ing of  the  reahty  that  surrounds  us.  The  universe  constantly 
and  obediently  answers  to  our  conceptions;  whether  we  travel 
fast  or  slow,  the  track  is  laid  for  us.  Let  us  spend  our  lives  in 
conceiving  then.  The  poet  or  the  artist  never  yet  had  so  fair 
and  noble  a  design  but  some  of  his  posterity  at  least  could 
accomplish  it. 

Let  us  spend  one  day  as  deliberately  as  Nature,  and  not  be 
thrown  ofif  the  track  by  every  nutshell  and  mosquito's  wing 
that  falls  on  the  rails.  Let  us  rise  early  and  fast,  or  break  fast, 
^  The  centre  of  Concord,  largely  devoted  to  business  and  gossip. 


448  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

gently  and  without  perturbation;  let  company  come  and  let 
company  go,  let  the  bells  ring  and  the  children  cry,  —  deter- 
mined to  make  a  day  of  it.  Why  should  we  knock  under  and  go 
with  the  stream?  Let  us  not  be  up>set  and  overwhelmed  in  that 
terrible  rapid  and  whirlpool  called  a  dinner,  situated  in  the 
meridian  shallows.  Weather  this  danger  and  you  are  safe,  for 
the  rest  of  the  way  is  down  hill.  With  unrelaxed  nerves,  with 
morning  vigor,  sail  by  it,  looking  another  way,  tied  to  the  mast 
like  Ulysses.^  If  the  engine  whistles,  let  it  whistle  till  it  is 
hoarse  for  its  pains.  If  the  bell  rings,  why  should  we  run?  We 
will  consider  what  kind  of  music  they  are  like.  Let  us  settle 
ourselves,  and  work  and  wedge  our  feet  downward  through  .the 
mud  and  slush  of  opinion,  and  prejudice,  and  tradition,  and 
delusion,  and  appearance,  that  alluvion  which  covers  the  globe, 
through  Paris  and  London,  through  New  York  and  Boston  and 
Concord,  through  Church  and  State,  through  poetry  and  phi- 
losophy and  religion,  till  we  come  to  a  hard  bottom  and  rocks 
in  place,  which  we  can  call  reality,  and  say,  This  is,  and  no 
mistake;  and  then  begin,  having  a  point  d'appui,  below  freshet 
and  frost  and  fire,  a  place  where  you  might  found  a  wall  or  a 
state,  or  set  a  lamp-post  safely,  or  perhaps  a  gauge,  not  a 
Nilometer,  but  a  Realometer,  that  future  ages, might  know 
how  deep  a  freshet  of  shams  and  appearances  had  gathered 
from  time  to  time.  If  you  stand  right  fronting  and  face  to  face 
to  a  fact,  you  will  see  the  sun  glimmer  on  both  its  surfaces,  as 
if  it  were  a  cimeter,  and  feel  its  sweet  edge  dividing  you  through 
the  heart  and  marrow,  and  so  you  will  happily  conclude  your 
mortal  career.  Be  it  life  or  death,  we  crave  only  reality.  If  we 
are  really  dying,  let  us  hear  the  rattle  in  our  throats  and  feel 
cold  in  the  extremities;  if  we  are  alive,  let  us  go  about  our 
business. 

Time  is  but  the  stream  I  go  a-iishing  in.  I  drink  at  it;  but 
while  I  drink  I  see  the  sandy  bottom  and  detect  how  shallow 
it  is.  Its  thin  current  slides  away,  but  eternity  remains.  I 
would  drink  deeper;  fish  in  the  sky,  whose  bottom  is  pebbly 
with  stars.  I  cannot  count  one.  I  know  not  the  first  letter  of 
the  alpha'bet.  I  have  always  been  regretting  that  I  was  not  as 
wise  as  the  day  I  was  born.  The  intellect  is  a  cleaver;  it  dis- 
cerns and  rifts  its  way  into  the  secret  of  things.  I  do  not  wish 
*  While  he  was  passing  the  Sirens. 


SOLITUDE  449 

to  be  any  more  busy  witH  my  hands  than  is  necessary.  My 
head  is  hands  and  feet.  I  feel  all  my  best  faculties  concentrated 
in  it.  My  instinct  tells  me  that  my  head  is  an  organ  for  burrow- 
ing, as  some  creatures  use  their  snout  and  fore  paws,  and  with 
it  I  would  mine  and  burrow  my  way  through  these  hills.  I 
think  that  the  richest  vein  is  somewhere  hereabouts;  so  by  the 
divining-rod  and  thin  rising  vapors  I  judge;  and  here  I  will 
begin  to  mine. 


SOLITUDE  1 

This  is  a  delicious  evening,  when  the  whole  body  is  one  sense, 
and  imbibes  delight  through  every  pore.  I  go  and  come  with 
a  strange  liberty  in  Nature,  a  part  of  herself.  As  I  walk  along 
the  stony  shore  of  the  pond  in  my  shirt-sleeves,  though  it  is 
cool  as  well  as  cloudy  and  windy,  and  I  see  nothing  special  to 
attract  me,  all  the  elements  are  unusually  congenial  to  me. 
The  bullfrogs  trump  to  usher  in  the  night,  and  the  note  of  the 
whip-poor-will  is  borne  on  the  rippling  wind  from  over  the 
water.  Sympathy  with  the  fluttering  alder  and  poplar  leaves 
almost  takes  away  my  breath;  yet,  like  the  lake,  my  serenity  is 
rippled  but  not  ruffled.  These  small  waves  raised  by  the  eve- 
ning wind  are  as  remote  from  storm  as  the  smooth  reflecting 
surface.  Though  it  is  now  dark,  the  wind  still  blows  and  roars 
in  the  wood,  the  waves  still  dash,  and  some  creatures  lull  the 
rest  with  their  notes.  The  repose  is  never  complete.  The  wild- 
est animals  do  not  repose,  but  seek  their  prey  now;  the  fox, 
and  skunk,  and  rabbit,  now  roam  the  fields  and  woods  without 
fear.  They  are  Nature's  watchmen,  —  links  which  connect  the 
days  of  animated  Hfe. 

When  I  return  to  my  house  I  find  that  visitors  have  been 
there  and  left  their  cards,  either  a  bunch  of  flowers,  or  a  wreath 
of  evergreen,  or  a  name  in  pencil  on  a  yellow  walnut  leaf  or  a 
chip.  They  who  come  rarely  to  the  woods  take  some  little  piece 
of  the  forest  into  their  hands  to  play  with  by  the  way,  which 
they  leave,  either  intentionally  or  accidentally.  One  has  peeled 
a  willow  wand,  woven  it  into  a  ring,  and  dropped  it  on  my  table. 
I  could  always  tell  if  visitors  had  called  in  my  absence,  either 
by  the  bended  twigs  or  grass,  or  the  print  of  their  shoes,  and 
^  Waldeitj  chapter  v. 


450  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

generally  of  what  sex  or  age  or  quality  they  were  by  some  slight 
trace  left,  as  a  flower  dropped,  or  a  bunch  of  grass  plucked  and 
thrown  away,  even  as  far  off  as  the  railroad,  half  a  mile  distant, 
or  by  the  lingering  odor  of  a  cigar  or  pipe.  Nay,  I  was  frequently 
notified  of  the  passage  of  a  traveller  along  the  highway  sixty 
rods  off  by  the  scent  of  his  pipe. 

There  is  commonly  sufficient  space  about  us.  Our  horizon 
is  never  quite  at  our  elbows.  The  thick  wood  is  not  just  at  our 
door,  nor  the  pond,  but  somewhat  is  always  clearing,  familiar 
and  worn  by  us,  appropriated  and  fenced  in  some  way,  and 
reclaimed  from  Nature.  For  what  reason  have  I  this  vast  range 
and  circuit,  some  square  miles  of  unfrequented  forest,  for  my 
privacy,  abandoned  to  me  by  men?  My  nearest  neighbor  is  a 
mile  distant,  and  no  house  is  visible  from  any  place  but  the 
hill- tops  within  half  a  mile  of  my  own.  I  have  my  horizon 
bounded  by  woods  all  to  myself;  a  distant  view  of  the  railroad 
where  it  touches  the  pond  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  the  fence 
which  skirts  the  woodland  road  on  the  other.  But  for  the  most 
part  it  is  as  solitary  where  I  live  as  on  the  prairies.  It  is  as  much 
Asia  or  Africa  as  New  England.  I  have,  as  it  were,  my  own  sun 
and  moon  and  stars,  and  a  Httle  world  all  to  myself.  At  night 
there  was  never  a  traveller  passed  my  house,  or  knocked  at  my 
door,  more  than  if  I  were  the  first  or  last  man;  unless  it  were  in 
the  spring,  when  at  long  intervals  some  came  from  the  village 
to  fish  for  pouts,  —  they  plainly  fished  much  more  in  the 
Walden  Pond  of  their  own  natures,  and  baited  their  hooks 
with  darkness,  —  but  they  soon  retreated,  usually  with  light 
baskets,  and  left  ^'the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me,'^  and  the 
black  kernel  of  the  night  was  never  profaned  by  any  human 
neighborhood.  I  believe  that  men  are  generally  still  a  little 
afraid  of  the  dark,  though  the  witches  are  all  hung,  and 
Christianity  and  candles  have  been  introduced. 

Yet  I  experienced  sometimes  that  the  most  sweet  and  tender, 
the  most  innocent  and  encouraging  society  may  be  found  in 
any  natural  object,  even  for  the  poor  misanthrope  and  most 
melancholy  man.  There  can  be  no  very  black  melancholy  to 
him  who  lives  in  the  midst  of  nature  and  has  his  senses  stfllT' 
There  was  never  yet"  such  a  storm  but  it  was  ^olian  music  to 
a  healthy  and  innocent  ear.  Nothing  can  rightly  compel  a 
simple  and  brave  man  to  a  vulgar  sadness.  While  I  enjoy  the 


SOLITUDE  451 

friendship  of  the  seasons  I  trust  that  nothing  can  make  life  a 
burden  to  me.  The  gentle  rain  which  waters  my  beans  and 
keeps  me  in  the  house  to-day  is  not  drear  and  melancholy,  but 
good  for  me  too.  Though  it  prevents  my  hoeing  them,  it  is  of 
far  more  worth  than  my  hoeing.  If  it  should  continue  so  long 
as  to  cause  the  seeds  to  rot  in  the  ground  and  destroy  the  pota- 
toes in  the  low  lands,  it  would  still  be  good  for  the  grass  on  the 
uplands,  and,  being  good  for  the  grass,  it  would  be  good  for  me. 
Sometimes,  when  I  compare  myself  with  other  men,  it  seems 
as  if  I  were  more  favored  by  the  gods  than  they,  beyond  any 
deserts  that  I  am  conscious  of;  as  if  I  had  a  warrant  and  surety 
at  their  hands  which  my  fellows  have  not,  and  were  especially 
guided  and  guarded.  I  do  not  flatter  myself,  but  if  it  be  possi- 
ble they  flatter  me.  I  have  never  felt  lonesome,  or  in  the  least 
oppressed  by  a  sense  of  solitude,  but  once,  and  that  was  a  few 
weeks  after  I  came  to  the  woods,  when,  for  an  hour,  I  doubted 
if  the  near  neighborhood  of  man  was  not  essential  to  a  serene 
and  healthy  life.  To  be  alone  was  something  unpleasant.  But 
I  was  at  the  same  time  conscious  of  a  sHght  insanity  in  my 
mood,  and  seemed  to  foresee  my  recovery.  In  the  midst  of  a 
gentle  rain  while  these  thoughts  prevailed,  I  was  suddenly 
sensible  of  such  sweet  and  beneficent  society  in  Nature,  in  the 
very  pattering  of  the  drops,  and  in  every  soimd  and  sight 
around  my  house,  an  infinite  and  unaccountable  friendliness  all 
at  once  like  an  atmosphere  sustaining  me,  as  made  the  fancied 
advantages  of  human  neighborhood  insignificant,  and  I  have 
never  thought  of  them  since.  Every  little  pine  needle  expanded 
and  swelled  with  sympathy  and  befriended  me.  I  was  so  dis- 
tinctly made  aware  of  the  presence  of  something  kindred  to  me, 
even  in  scenes  w^hich  we  are  accustomed  to  call  wild  and  dreary, 
and  also  that  the  nearest  of  blood  to  me  and  humanest  was  not 
a  person  nor  a  villager,  that  I  thought  no  place  could  ever  be 
strange  to  me  again.  — 

"Mourning  untimely  consumes  the  sad; 
Few  are  their  days  in  the  land  of  the  living, 
Beautiful  daughter  of  Toscar."  ^ 

Some  of  my  pleasantest  hours  were  during  the  long  rain- 
storms in  the  spring  or  fall,  which  confined  me  to  the  house  for 
^  A  metrical  version  of  Ossian. 


452  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

the  afternoon  as  well  as  the  forenoon,  soothed  by  their  ceaseless 
roar  and  pelting;  when  an  early  twilight  ushered  in  a  long  eve- 
ning in  which  many  thoughts  had  time  to  take  root  and  unfold 
themselves.  In  those  driving  northeast  rains  which  tried  the 
village  houses  so,  when  the  maids  stood  ready  with  mop  and 
pail  in  front  entries  to  keep  the  deluge  out,  I  sat  behind  my 
door  in  my  little  house,  which  was  all  entry,  and  thoroughly 
enjoyed  its  protection.  In  one  heavy  thundershower  the  light- 
ning struck  a  large  pitch  pine  across  the  pond,  making  a  very 
conspicuous  and  perfectly  regular  spiral  groove  from  top  to 
bottom,  an  inch  or  more  deep,  and  four  or  five  inches  wide,  as 
you  would  groove  a  walking-stick.  I  passed  it  again  the  other 
day,  and  was  struck  with  awe  on  looking  up  and  beholding  that 
mark,  now  more  distinct  than  ever,  where  a  terrific  and  resist- 
less bolt  came  down  out  of  the  harmless  sky  eight  years  ago. 
Men  frequently  say  to  me, ''  I  should  think  you  would  feel  lone- 
some down  there,  and  want  to  be  nearer  to  folks,  rainy  and 
snowy  days  and  nights  especially."  I  am  tempted  to  reply  to 
such,  —  This  whole  earth  which  we  inhabit  is  but  a  point  in 
space.  How  far  apart,  think  you,  dwell  the  two  most  distant 
inhabitants  of  yonder  star,  the  breadth  of  whose  disk  cannot  be 
appreciated  by  our  instruments?  Why  should  I  feel  lonely? 
is  not  our  planet  in  the  Milky  Way?  This  which  you  put  seems 
to  me  not  to  be  the  most  important  question.  What  sort  of 
space  is  that  which  separates  a  man  from  his  fellows  and  makes 
him  solitary?  I  have  found  that  no  exertion  of  the  legs  can 
bring  two  minds  much  nearer  to  one  another.  What  do  we 
want  most  to  dwell  near  to?  Not  to  many  men  surely,  the 
depot,  the  post-office,  the  bar-room,  the  meeting-house,  the 
school-house,  the  grocery.  Beacon  Hill,^  or  the  Five  Points,^ 
where  men  most  congregate,  but  to  the  perennial  source  of  our 
life,  whence  in  all  our  experience  we  have  found  that  to  issue, 
as  the  willow  stands  near  the  water  and  sends  out  its  roots  in 
that  direction.  This  will  vary  with  different  natures,  but  this 
is  the  place  where  a  wise  man  will  di^  his  cellar.  ...  I  one  eve- 
ning overtook  one  of  my  townsmen,  who  has  accumulated  what 
is  called  ^'sl  handsome  property,"  —  though  I  never  got  3.  fair 
view  of  it,  —  on  the  Walden  road,  driving  a  pair  of  cattle  to 
market,  who  inquired  of  me  how  I  could  bring  my  mind  to  give 
^  In  Boston.  2  Jq  New  York. 


SOLITUDE  453 

up  so  many  of  the  comforts  of  life.  I  answered  that  I  was  very 
sure  I  liked  it  passably  well;  I  was  not  joking.  And  so  I  went 
home  to  my  bed,  and  left  him  to  pick  his  way  through  the  dark- 
ness and  the  mud  to  Brighton,  —  or  Bright- town,  —  which 
place  he  would  reach  some  time  in  the  morning. 

Any  prospect  of  awakening  or  coming  to  life  to  a  dead  man 
makes  indifferent  all  times  and  places.  The  place  where  that 
may  occur  is  always  the  same,  and  indescribably  pleasant  to 
all  our  senses.  For  the  most  part  we  allow  only  outlying  and 
transient  circumstances  to  make  our  occasions.  They  are,  in 
fact,  the  cause  of  our  distraction.  Nearest  to  all  things  is  that 
power  which  fashions  their  being.  Next  to  us  the  grandest  laws 
are  continually  being  executed.  Next  to  us  is  not  the  workman 
whom  we  have  hired,  with  whom  we  love  so  well  to  talk,  but 
the  workman  whose  w^ork  we  are. 

"How  vast  and  profound  is  the  influence  of  the  subtile 
powers  of  Heaven  and  of  Earth!" 

''  We  seek  to  perceive  them,  and  we  do  not  see  them ;  we  seek 
to  hear  them,  and  we  do  not  hear  them;  identified  with  the 
substance  of  things,  they  cannot  be  separated  from  them." 

"They  cause  that  in  all  the  universe  men  purify  and  sanctify 
their  hearts,  and  clothe  themselves  in  their  hoHday  garments 
to  offer  sacrifices  and  oblations  to  their  ancestors.  It  is  an  ocean 
of  subtile  intelligences.  They  are  everywhere,  above  us,  on  our 
left,  on  our  right;  they  environ  us  on  all  sides." 

We  are  the  subjects  of  an  experiment  which  is  not  a  Httle 
interesting  to  me.  Can  we  not  do  without  the  society  of  our 
gossips  a  httle  while  under  these  circumstances,  —  have  our 
own  thoughts  to  cheer  us?  Confucius  says  truly,  "Virtue  does 
not  remain  as  an  abandoned  orphan;  it  must  of  necessity  have 
neighbors." 

With  thinking  we  may  be  beside  ourselves  in  a  sane  sense. 
By  a  conscious  effort  of  the  mind  we  can  stand  aloof  from 
actions  and  their  consequences;  and  all  things,  good  and  bad, 
go  by  us  Hke  a  torrent.  We  are  not  wholly  involved  in  Nature. 
I  may  be  either  the  driftwood  in  the  stream,  or  Indra  in  the  sky 
looking  down  on  it.  I  may  be  affected  by  a  theatrical  exhibi- 
tion; on  the  other  hand,  I  may  not  be  affected  by  an  actual 
event  which  appears  to  concern  me  much  more.  I  only  know 
myself  as  a  human  entity;  the  scene,  so  to  speak,  of  thoughts 


454  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

and  affections;  and  am  sensible  of  a  certain  doubleness  by  which 
I  can  stand  as  remote  from  myself  as  from  another.  However 
intense  my  experience,  I  am  conscious  of  the  presence  and  criti- 
cism of  a  part  of  me,  which,  as  it  were,  is  not  a  part  of  me,  but 
spectator,  sharing  no  experience,  but  taking  note  of  it,  and  that 
is  no  more  I  than  it  is  you.  When  the  play,  it  may  be  the  trag- 
edy, of  life  is  over,  the  spectator  goes  his  way.  It  was  a  kind  of 
fiction,  a  work  of  the  imagination  only,  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned. This  doubleness  may  easily  make  us  poor  neighbors 
and  friends  sometimes. 

I  find  it  wholesome  to  be  alone  the  greater  part  of  the  time. 
To  be  in  company,  even  with  the  best,  is  soon  wearisome  and 
dissipating.  I  love  to  be  alone.  I  never  found  the  companion 
that  was  so  companionable  as  solitude.  We  are  for  the  most 
part  more  lonely  when  we  go  abroad  among  men  than  when  we 
stay  in  our  chambers.  A  man  thinking  or  working  is  always 
alone,  let  him  be  where  he  will.  Solitude  is  not  measured  by  the 
miles  of  space  that  intervene  between  a  man  and  his  fellows. 
The  really  diligent  student  in  one  of  the  crowded  hives  of 
Cambridge  College  is  as  solitary  as  a  dervis  in  the  desert.  The 
farmer  can  work  alone  in  the  field  or  the  woods  all  day,  hoeing 
or  chopping,  and  not  feel  lonesome,  because  he  is  employed; 
but  when  he  comes  home  at  night  he  cannot  sit  down  in  a  room 
alone,  at  the  mercy  of  his  thoughts,  but  must  be  where  he  can 
*'see  the  folks,"  and  recreate,  and,  as  he  thinks,  remunerate 
himself  for  his  day^s  soUtude;  and  hence  he  wonders  how  the 
student  can  sit  alone  in  the  house  all  night  and  most  of  the  day 
without  ennui  and  ''  the  blues  " ;  but  he  does  not  realize  that  the 
student,  though  in  the  house,  is  still  at  work  in  his  field,  and 
chopping  in  his  woods,  as  the  farmer  in  his,  and  in  turn  seeks 
the  same  recreation  and  society  that  the  latter  does,  though  it 
may  be  a  more  condensed  form  of  it. 

Society  is  commonly  too  cheap.  We  meet  at  very  short 
intervals,  not  having  had  time  to  acquire  any  new  value  for 
each  other.  We  meet  at  meals  three  times  a  day,  and  give  each 
other  a  new  taste  of  that  old  musty  cheese  that  we  are.  We 
have  had  to  agree  on  a  certain  set  of  rules,  called  etiquette  and 
politeness,  to  make  this  frequent  meeting  tolerable  and  that  we 
need  not  come  to  open  war.  We  meet  at  the  post-office,  and  at 
the  sociable,  and  about  the  fireside  every  night;  we  live  thick 


SOLITUDE  455 

and  are  in  each  other*s  way,  and  stumble  over  one  another, 
and  I  think  that  we  thus  lose  some  respect  for  one  another. 
Certainly  less  frequency  would  sufl5ce  for  all  important 
and  hearty  communications.  Consider  the  girls  in  a  factory, 
—  never  alone,  hardly  in  their  dreams.  It  would  be  better 
if  there  were  but  one  inhabitant  to  a  square  mile,  as  where 
I  live.  The  value  of  a  man  is  not  in  his  skin,  that  we  should 
touch  him. 

I  have  heard  of  a  man  lost  in  the  w^oods  and  d}'ing  of  famine 
and  exhaustion  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  whose  loneliness  was  re- 
lieved by  the  grotesque  visions  with  which,  owing  to  bodily 
weakness,  his  diseased  imagination  surrounded  him,  and  which 
he  beheved  to  be  real.  So  also,  owing  to  bodily  and  mental 
health  and  strength,  we  may  be  continually  cheered  by  a  like 
but  more  normal  and  natural  society,  and  come  to  know  that 
we  are  never  alone. 

I  have  a  great  deal  of  company  in  my  house;  especially  in  the 
morning,  when  nobody  calls.  Let  me  suggest  a  few  comparisons, 
that  some  one  may  convey  an  idea  of  my  situation.  I  am  no 
more  lonely  than  the  loon  in  the  pond  that  laughs  so  loud,  or 
than  Walden  Pond  itself.  What  company  has  that  lonely  lake, 
I  pray?  And  yet  it  has  not  the  blue  devils,  but  the  blue  angels 
in  it,  in  the  azure  tint  of  its  waters.  The  sun  is  alone,  except  in 
thick  weather,  w^hen  there  sometimes  appear  to  be  two,  but 
one  is  a  mock  sun.  God  is  alone,  —  but  the  devil,  he  is  far  from 
being  alone ;  he  sees  a  great  deal  of  company ;  he  is  legion.  I  am 
no  more  lonely  than  a  single  mullein  or  dandeHon  in  a  pasture, 
or  a  bean  leaf,  or  sorrel,  or  a  horse-fly,  or  a  hiunblebee.  I  am  no 
more  lonely  than  the  Mill  Brook,^  or  a  weathercock,  or  the 
north  star,  or  the  south  wind,  or  an  April  shower,  or  a  January 
thaw,  or  the  first  spider  in  a  new  house. 

I  have  occasional  visits  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  when  the 
snow  falls  fast  and  the  wind  howls  in  the  wood,  from  an  old 
settler  and  original  proprietor,  who  is  reported  to  have  dug 
Walden  Pond,  and  stoned  it,  and  fringed  it  with  pine  woods; 
who  tells  me  stories  of  old  time  and  of  new  eternity;  and  be- 
tween us  we  manage  to  pass  a  cheerful  evening  with  social 
mirth  and  pleasant  views  of  things,  even  without  apples  or 
cider,  —  a  most  wise  and  humorous  friend,  whom  I  love  much, 
*  A  Concord  brook. 


4S6  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

who  keeps  himself  more  secret  than  ever  did  Goffe  or  Whalley,^ 
and  though  he  is  thought  to  be  dead,  none  can  show  where  he 
is  buried.^  An  elderly  dame,  too,  dwells  in  my  neighborhood, 
invisible  to  most  persons,  in  whose  odorous  herb  garden  I  love 
to  stroll  sometimes,  gathering  simples  and  Ustening  to  her 
fables;  for  she  has  a  genius  of  unequalled  fertility,  and  her 
memory  runs  back  farther  than  mythology,  and  she  can  tell 
me  the  original  of  every  fable,  and  on  what  fact  every  one  is 
founded,  for  the  incidents  occurred  when  she  was  young.  A 
ruddy  and  lusty  old  dame,  who  delights  in  all  weathers  and 
seasons,  and  is  likely  to  outlive  all  her  children  yet.^ 

The  indescribable  innocence  and  beneficence  of  Nature,  — 
of  sun  and  wind  and  rain,  of  siunmer  and  winter,  —  such 
health,  such  cheer,  they  afford  forever!  and  such  sympathy 
have  they  ever  with  our  race,  that  all  Nature  would  be  affected, 
and  the  sun's  brightness  fade,  and  the  winds  would  sigh  hu- 
manely, and  the  clouds  rain  tears,  and  the  woods  shed  their 
leaves  and  put  on  mourning  in  midsummer,  if  any  man  should 
ever  for  a  just  cause  grieve.  Shall  I  not  have  intelligence  with 
the  earth?  Am  I  not  partly  leaves  and  vegetable  mould  myself? 

What  is  the  pill  which  will  keep  us  well,  serene,  contented? 
Not  my  or  thy  great-grandfather's,  but  our  great-grandmother 
Nature's  universal,  vegetable,  botanic  medicines,  by  which  she 
has  kept  herself  young  always,  outlived  so  many  old  Parrs  ^  in 
her  day,  and  fed  her  health  with  their  decaying  fatness.  For 
my  panacea,  instead  of  one  of  those  quack  vials  of  a  mixture 
dipped  from  Acheron  and  the  Dead  Sea,  which  come  out  of 
those  long  shallow  black-schooner  looking  wagons  which  we 
sometimes  see  made  to  carry  bottles,  let  me  have  a  draught  of 
undiluted  morning  air.  Morning  air!  If  men  will  not  drink  of 
this  at  the  fountain-head  of  the  day,  why,  then,  we  must  even 
bottle  up  some  and  sell  it  in  the  shops,  for  the  benefit  of  those 
who  have  lost  their  subscription  ticket  to  morning  time  in  this 
world.  But  remember,  it  will  not  keep  quite  till  noonday  even 
in  the  coolest  cellar,  but  drive  out  the  stopples  long  ere  that 
and  follow  westward  the  steps  of  Aurora.  I  am  no  worshipper 

.    *  Regicides  in  hiding  after  the  Restoration  of  1660. 

2  Doubtless  Pan.  ^  Dame  Nature. 

*  Thomas  Parr,  who  died  in  1635,  was  reported  to  have  attained  the  age  of 
152  years. 


CONCLUSION  OF   '^WALDEN"  457 

of  Hygeia,  who  was  the  daughter  of  that  old  herb-doctor 
iEsculapius,  and  who  is  represented  on  monuments  holding  a 
serpent  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  cup  out  of  which  the 
serpent  sometimes  drinks;  but  rather  of  Hebe,  cup-bearer  to 
Jupiter,  who  was  the  daughter  of  Juno  and  wild  lettuce,^  and 
who  had  the  power  of  restoring  gods  and  men  to  the  vigor  of 
youth.  She  was  probably  the  only  thoroughly  sound-condi- 
tioned, healthy,  and  robust  young  lady  that  ever  walked  the 
globe,  and  wherever  she  came  it  was  spring. 


CONCLUSION  OF  "WALDEN"^ 

To  the  sick  the  doctors  wisely  recommend  a  change  of  air 
and  scenery.  Thank  Heaven,  here  is  not  all  the  world.  The 
buckeye  does  not  grow  in  New  England,  and  the  mockingbird 
is  rarely  heard  here.  The  wild  goose  is  more  of  a  cosmopolite 
than  we;  he  breaks  his  fast  in  Canada,  takes  a  luncheon  in  the 
Ohio,  and  pliunes  himself  for  the  night  in  a  southern  bayou. 
Even  the  bison,  to  some  extent,  keeps  pace  with  the  seasons, 
cropping  the  pastures  of  the  Colorado  only  till  a  greener  and 
sweeter  grass  awaits  him  by  the  Yellowstone.  Yet  we  think 
that  if  rail  fences  are  pulled  down,  and  stone  walls  piled  up  on 
our  farms,  bounds  are  henceforth  set  to  our  lives  and  our  fates 
decided.  If  you  are  chosen  town  clerk,  forsooth,  you  cannot  go 
to  Tierra  del  Fuego  this  summer :  but  you  may  go  to  the  land  of 
infernal  fire  nevertheless.  The  universe  is  wider  than  our  views 
of  it. 

Yet  we  should  of tener  look  over  the  tafferel  of  our  craft,  like 
curious  passengers,  and  not  make  the  voyage  like  stupid  sailors 
picking  oakum.  The  other  side  of  the  globe  is  but  the  home  of 
our  correspondent.  Our  voyaging  is  only  great-circle  sailing,^ 
and  the  doctors  prescribe  for  diseases  of  the  skin  merely.  One 
hastens  to  southern  Africa  to  chase  the  giraffe;  but  surely  that 
is  not  the  game  he  would  be  after.  How  long,  pray,  would  a 
man  hunt  giraffes  if  he  could?  Snipes  and  woodcocks  also  may 

*  According  to  some  accounts,  the  birth  of  Hebe  was  the  consequence  of  Jimo's 
having  eaten  freely  of  wild  lettuce. 

^  Walden,  chapter  xvin. 

2  Travelling  over  the  curved  surface  of  the  earth  on  such  a  course  as  to  traverse 
the  shortest  distance  between  two  points. 


458  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

afford  rare  sport;  but  I  trust  it  would  be  nobler  game  to  shoot 
one's  self.  — 

"Direct  your  eye  right  inward,  and  you'll  find 
A  thousand  regions  in  your  mind 
Yet  undiscovered.  Travel  them,  and  be 
Expert  in  home-cosmography." 

What  does  Africa,  —  what  does  the  West  stand  for?  Is  not 
our  own  interior  white  on  the  chart?  black  though  it  may 
prove,  like  the  coast,  when  discovered.  Is  it  the  source  of  the 
Nile,  or  the  Niger,  or  the  Mississippi,  or  a  Northwest  Passage 
around  this  continent,  that  we  would  find?  Are  these  the 
problems  which  most  concern  mankind?  Is  Franklin^  the  only 
man  who  is  lost,  that  his  wife  should  be  so  earnest  to  find  him? 
Does  Mr.  Grinnell  know  where  he  himself  is?  Be  rather  the 
Mungo  Park,  the  Lewis  and  Clark  and  Frobisher,  of  your  own 
streams  and  oceans ;  explore  your  own  higher  latitudes,  —  with 
shiploads  of  preserved  meats  to  support  you,  if  they  be  neces- 
sary; and  pile  the  empty  cans  sky-high  for  a  sign.  Were  pre- 
served meats  invented  to  preserve  meat  merely?  Nay,  be  a 
Columbus  to  whole  new  continents  and  worlds  within  you, 
opening  new  channels,  not  of  trade,  but  of  thought.  Every  man 
is  the  lord  of  a  realm  beside  which  the  earthly  empire  of  the 
Czar  is  but  a  petty  state,  a  hummock  left  by  the  ice.  Yet  some 
can  be  patriotic  who  have  no  self-respect,  and  sacrifice  the 
greater  to  the  less.  They  love  the  soil  which  makes  their  graves, 
but  have  no  sympathy  with  the  spirit  which  may  still  animate 
their  clay.  Patriotism  is  a  maggot  in  their  heads.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  that  South-Sea  Exploring  Expedition,^  with  all 
its  parade  and  expense,  but  an  indirect  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  there  are  continents  and  seas  in  the  moral  world  to  which 
every  man  is  an  isthmus  or  an  inlet,  yet  unexplored  by  him, 
but  that  it  is  easier  to  sail  many  thousand  miles  through 
cold  and  storm  and  cannibals,  in  a  government  ship,  with  five 
hundred  men  and  boys  to  assist  one,  than  it  is  to  explore 
the  private  sea,  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Ocean  of  one's  being 
alone.  — 

^  Sir  John  Franklin,  the  explorer,  who  was  lost  in  the  Arctic  Ocean  in  1847. 
Of  the  many  relief  ships  sent  in  search  of  him,  two  were  fitted  out  by  Henry 
Grinnell,  of  New  York. 

*  Conducted,  in  1838-42,  by  Lieutenant  Charles  Wilkes. 


CONCLUSION  OF   '^WALDEN''^  459 

"Erret,  et  extreftios  alter  scrutetur  Iberos. 
Plus  habet  hie  vitae,  plus  habet  ille  viae." 

Let  them  wander  and  scrutinize  the  outlandish  Australians. 
I  have  more  of  God,  they  more  of  the  road. 

It  is  notVorth  the  while  to  go  round  the  world  to  count  the 
cats  in  Zanzibar.  Yet  do  this  even  till  you  can  do  better,  and 
you  may  perhaps  find  some  "SyTnmes'  Hole"  by  which  to  get 
at  the  inside  at  last.^  England  and  France,  Spain  and  Portugal, 
Gold  Coast  and  Slave  Coast,  all  front  on  this  private  sea;  but 
no  bark  from  them  has  ventured  out  of  sight  of  land,  though 
it  is  without  doubt  the  direct  way  to  India.  If  you  would  learn 
to  speak  all  tongues  and  conform  to  the  customs  of  all  nations, 
if  you  would  travel  farther  than  all  travellers,  be  naturalized  in 
all  climes,  and  cause  the  Sphinx  to  dash  her  head  against  a 
stone,  even  obey  the  precept  of  the  old  philosopher,  and 
Explore  thyself.  Herein  are  demanded  the  eye  and  the  nerve. 
Only  the  defeated  and  deserters  go  to  the  wars,  cowards  that 
run  away  and  enHst.  Start  now  on  that  farthest  western  way, 
which  does  not  pause  at  the  Mississippi  or  the  Pacific,  nor  con- 
duct toward  a  worn-out  China  or  Japan,  but  leads  on  direct, 
a  tangent  to  this  sphere,  summer  and  winter,  day  and  night, 
sun  down,  moon  down,  and  at  last  earth  down  too. 

It  is  said  that  ^Mirabeau  took  to  highway  robbery  "  to  ascer- 
tain what  degree  of  resolution  was  necessary  in  order  to  place 
one's  self  in  formal  opposition  to  the  most  sacred  laws  of  soci- 
ety." He  declared  that  ''a  soldier  who  fights  in  the  ranks  does 
not  require  half  so  much  courage  as  a  foot-pad,"  —  *Hhat 
honor  and  religion  have  never  stood  in  the  way  of  a  well- 
considered  and  a  firm  resolve."  This  was  manly,  as  the  world 
goes;  and  yet  it  was  idle,  if  not  desperate.  A  saner  man  would 
have  foimd  himself  often  enough  *'in  formal  opposition"  to 
what  are  deemed  *'the  most  sacred  laws  of  society,"  through 
obedience  to  yet  more  sacred  laws,  and  so  have  tested  his  reso- 
lution without  going  out  of  his  way.  It  is  not  for  a  man  to  put 
himself  in  such  an  attitude  to  society,  but  to  maintain  himself 
in  whatever  attitude  he  find  himself  through  obedience  to  the 
laws  of  his  being,  which  will  never  be  one  of  opposition  to  a 
just  government,  if  he  should  chance  to  meet  with  such. 

*  John  Cleves  Symmes,  a  naval  captain  in  the  War  of  1812,  published  the 
theory  that  the  earth  is  hollow,  is  open  at  the  poles,  and  is  habitable  within. 


46o  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

I  left  the  woods  for  as  good  a  reason  as  I  went  there.  Per- 
haps it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  several  more  lives  to  live,  and 
could  not  spare  any  more  time  for  that  one.  It  is  remarkable 
how  easily  and  insensibly  we  fall  into  a  particular  route,  and 
make  a  beaten  track  for  ourselves.  I  had  not  lived  the^e  a  week 
before  my  feet  wore  a  path  from  my  door  to  the  pond-side;  and 
though  it  is  five  or  six  years  since  I  trod  it,  it  is  still  quite  dis- 
tinct. It  is  true,  I  fear,  that  others  may  have  fallen  into  it,  and 
so  helped  to  keep  it  open.  The  surface  of  the  earth  is  soft  and 
impressible  by  the  feet  of  men;  and  so  with  the  paths  which  the 
mind  travels.  How  worn  and  dusty,  then,  must  be  the  high- 
ways of  the  world,  how  deep  the  ruts  of  trkdition  and  conform- 
ity! I  did  not  wish  to  take  a  cabin  passage,  but  rather  to  go 
before  the  mast  and  on  the  deck  of  the  world,  for  there  I  could 
best  see  the  moonlight  amid  the  mountains.  I  do  not  wish  to 
go  below  now. 

I  learned  this,  at  least,  by  my  experiment:  that  if  one  ad- 
vances confidently  in  the  direction  of  his  dreams,  and  endeavors 
to  live  the  life  which  he  has  imagined,  he  will  meet  with  a  suc- 
cess unexpected  in  common  hours.  He  will  put  some  things 
behind,  will  pass  an  invisible  boundary;  new,  universal,  and 
more  liberal  laws  will  begin  to  establish  themselves  around  and 
within  him;  or  the  old  laws  be  expanded,  and  interpreted  in  his 
favor  in  a  more  liberal  sense,  and  he  will  live  with  the  license 
of  a  higher  order  of  beings.  In  proportion  as  he  simplifies  his 
life,  the  laws  of  the  universe  will  appear  less  complex,  and  soli- 
tude will  not  be  solitude,  nor  poverty  poverty,  nor  weakness 
weakness.  If  you  have  built  castles  in  the  air,  your  work  need 
not  be  lost;  that  is  where  they  should  be.  Now  put  the  foun- 
dations under  them. 

It  is  a  ridiculous  demand  which  England  and  America  make, 
that  you  shall  speak  so  that  they  can  understand  you.  Neither 
men  nor  toadstools  grow  so.  As  if  that  were  important,  and 
there  were  not  enough  to  understand  you  without  them.  As  if 
Nature  could  support  but  one  order  of  understandings,  could 
not  sustain  birds  as  well  as  quadrupeds,  flying  as  well  as  creep- 
ing things,  and  hish  and  whoa,  which  Bright  ^  can  understand, 
were  the  best  English.  As  if  there  were  safety  in  stupidity 
alone.   I  fear  chiefly  lest  my  expression  may  not  be  extravagant 

^  A  favorite  name  for  an  ox  or  a  horse. 


CONCLUSION  OF   "WALDEN"  461 

enough,  may  not  wander  far  enough  beyond  the  narrow  limits 
of  my  daily  experience,  so  as  to  be  adequate  to  the  truth  of 
which  I  have  been  convinced.  Extravagance!  it  depends  on 
how  you  are  yarded.  The  migrating  buffalo,  which  seeks  new 
pastures  in  another  latitude,  is  not  extravagant  like  the  cow 
which  kicks  over  the  pail,  leaps  the  cowyard  fence,  and  nms 
after  her  calf,  in  milking  time.  I  desire  to  speak  somewhere 
without  bounds;  like  a  man  in  a  waking  moment,  to  men  in 
their  waking  moments;  for  I  am  convinced  that  I  cannot  exag- 
gerate enough  even  to  lay  the  foimdation  of  a  true  expression. 
Who  that  has  heard  a  strain  of  music  feared  then  lest  he  should 
speak  extravagantly  any  more  forever?  In  view  of  the  future 
or  possible,  we  should  Uve  quite  laxly  and  undefined  in  front, 
our  outlines  dim  and  misty  on  that  side;  as  our  shadows  reveal 
an  insensible  perspiration  toward  the  sun.  The  volatile  truth 
of  our  words  should  continually  betray  the  inadequacy  of  the 
residual  statement.  Their  truth  is  instantly  translated;  its  ht- 
eral  monument  alone  remains.  The  words  which  express  our 
faith  and  piety  are  not  definite;  yet  they  are  significant  and 
fragrant  like  frankincense  to  superior  natures. 

Why  level  downward  to  our  dullest  perception  always,  and 
praise  that  as  common  sense?  The  commonest  sense  is  the 
sense  of  men  asleep,  which  they  express  by  snoring.  Sometimes 
we  are  inclined  to  class  those  who  are  once-and-a-half-witted 
with  the  hah-witted,  because  we  appreciate  only  a  third  part 
of  their  wit.  Some  would  find  fault  with  the  morning  red,  if 
they  ever  got  up  early  enough.  ''They  pretend,"  as  I  hear, 
"that  the  verses  of  Kabir^  have  four  different  senses;  illusion, 
spirit,  intellect,  and  the  exoteric  doctrine  of  the  Vedas"; 
but  in  this  part  of  the  world  it  is  considered  a  ground  for 
complaint  if  a  man's  writings  admit  of  more  than  one  inter- 
pretation. While  England  endeavors  to  cure  the  potato-rot, 
will  not  any  endeavor  to  cure  the  brain-rot,  which  prevails  so 
much  more  widely  and  fatally? 

I  do  not  suppose  that  I  have  attained  to  obscurity,  but  I 
should  be  proud  if  no  more  fatal  fault  were  found  with  my 
pages  on  this  score  than  was  found  with  the  Walden  ice. 
Southern  customers  objected  to  its  blue  color,  which  is  the 
evidence  of  its  purity,  as  if  it  were  muddy,  and  preferred  the 
*  A  Hindoo  religious  refonner  (1488-15 12). 


462  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

Cambridge  ice,  which  is  white,  but  tastes  of  weeds.  The  purity 
men  love  is  like  the  mists  which  envelop  the  earth,  and  not  like 
the  azure  ether  beyond. 

Some  are  dinning  in  our  ears  that  we  Americans,  and  mod- 
erns generally,  are  intellectual  dwarfs  compared  with  the  an- 
cients, or  even  the  Elizabethan  men.  But  what  is  that  to  the 
purpose?  A  living  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion.  Shall  a  man 
go  and  hang  himself  because  he  belongs  to  the  race  of  pygmies, 
and  not  be  the  biggest  pygmy  that  he  can?  Let  every  one  mind 
his  own  business,  and  endeavor  to  be  what  he  was  made. 

Why  should  we  be  in  such  desperate  haste  to  succeed  and  in 
such  desperate  enterprises?  If  a  man  does  not  keep  pace  with 
his  companions,  perhaps  it  is  because  he  hears  a  different 
drummer.  Let  him  step  to  tJie  music  which  he  hears,  however 
measured  or  far  away.  It  is  not  important  that  he  should 
mature  as  soon  as  an  apple  tree  or  an  oak.  Shall  he  turn  his 
spring  into  summer?  If  tiie  condition  of  things  which  we  were 
made  for  is  not  yet,  what  were  any  reality  which  we  can  sub- 
stitute? We  will  not  be  shipwrecked  on  a  vain  reality.  Shall 
we  with  pains  erect  a  heaven  of  blue  glass  over  ourselves, 
though  when  it  is  done  we  shall  be  sure  to  gaze  still  at  the  true 
ethereal  heaven  far  above,  as  if  the  former  were  not? 

There  was  an  artist  in  the  city  of  Kouroo  who  was  disposed 
to  strive  after  perfection.  One  day  it  came  into  his  mind  to 
make  a  staff.  Having  considered  that  in  an  imperfect  work 
time  is  an  ingredient,  but  into  a  perfect  work  time  does  not 
enter,  he  said  to  himself.  It  shall  be  perfect  in  all  respects, 
though  I  should  do  nothing  else  in  niy  life.  He  proceeded  in- 
stantly to  the  forest  for  wood,  being  resolved  that  it  should  not 
be  made  of  unsuitable  material;  and  as  he  searched  for  and 
rejected  stick  after  stick,  his  friends  gradually  deserted  him, 
for  they  grew  old  in  their  works  and  died,  but  he  grew  not  older 
by  a  moment.  His  singleness  of  purpose  and  resolution,  and 
his  elevated  piety,  endowed  him,  without  his  knowledge,  with 
perennial  youth.  As  he  made  no  compromise  with  Time,  Time 
kept  out  of  his  way,  and  only  sighed  at  a  distance  because  he 
could  not  overcome  him.  Before  he  had  found  a  stock  in  all 
respects  suitable  the  city  of  Kouroo  was  a  hoary  ruin,  and  he 
sat  on  one  of  its  mounds  to  peel  the  stick.  Before  he  had  given 
it  the  proper  shape  the  dynasty  of  the  Candahars  was  at  an 


CONCLUSION  OF  "WALDEN"  463 

end,  and  with  the  point  of  the  stick  he  wrote  the  name  of  the 
last  of  that  race  in  the  sand,  and  then  resumed  his  work.  By 
the  time  he  had  smoothed  and  polished  the  staff  Kalpa^  was 
no  longer  the  pole-star;  and  ere  he  had  put  on  the  ferule  and 
the  head  adorned  with  precious  stones,  Brahma  had  awoke  and 
slumbered  many  times.  But  why  do  I  stay  to  mention  these 
things?  When  the  finishing  stroke  was  put  to  his  work,  it 
suddenly  expanded  before  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  artist  into 
the  fairest  of  all  the  creations  of  Brahma.  He  had  made  a  new 
system  in  making  a  staff,  a  world  with  full  and  fair  proportions; 
in  which,  though  the  old  cities  and  dynasties  had  passed  away, 
fairer  and  more  glorious  ones  had  taken  their  places.  And  now 
he  saw  by  the  heap  of  shavings  still  fresh  at  his  feet,  that,  for 
him  and  his  work,  the  former  lapse  of  time  had  been  an  illusion, 
and  that  no  more  time  had  elapsed  than  is  required  for  a  single 
scintillation  from  the  brain  of  Brahma  to  fall  on  and  inflame 
the  tinder  of  a  mortal  brain.  The  material  was  pure,  and  his 
art  was  pure;  how  could  the  result  be  other  than  wonderful? 

No  face  which  we  can  give  to  a  matter  will  stead  us  so  well 
at  last  as  the  truth.  This  alone  wears  well.  For  the  most  part, 
we  are  not  where  we  are,  but  in  a  false  position.  Through  an 
infirmity  of  our  natures,  we  suppose  a  case,  and  put  ourselves 
into  it,  and  hence  are  in  two  cases  at  the  same  time,  and  it  is 
doubly  difiicult  to  get  out.  In  sane  moments  we  regard  only 
the  facts,  the  case  that  is.  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  not  what 
you  ought.  Any  truth  is  better  than  make-believe.  Tom  Hyde, 
the  tinker,  standing  on  the  gallow^s,  was  asked  if  he  had  any- 
thing to  say.  ''  Tell  the  tailors,"  said  he,  "  to  remember  to  make 
a  knot  in  their  thread  before  they  take  the  first  stitch."  His 
companion's  prayer  is  forgotten. 

However  mean  your  life  is,  meet  it  and  live  it;  do  not  shun  it 
and  call  it  hard  names.  It  is  not  so  bad  as  you  are.  It  looks 
poorest  when  you  are  richest.  The  fault-finder  will  find  faults 
even  in  paradise.  Love  your  life,  poor  as  it  is.  You  may  per- 
haps have  some  pleasant,  thrilling,  glorious  hours,  even  in  a 
poorhouse.  The  setting  sun  is  reflected  from  the  windows  of 
the  almshouse  as  brightly  as  from  the  rich  man's  abode;  the 
snow  melts  before  its  door  as  early  in  the  spring.  I  do  not  see 
but  a  quiet  mind  may  Uve  as  contentedly  there,  and  have  as 
1  A  day  of  Brahma,  or  4,320,000,000  years. 


464  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

cheering  thoughts,  as  in  a  palace.  The  town's  poor  seem  to  me 
often  to  live  the  most  independent  Hves  of  any.  Maybe  they 
are  simply  great  enough  to  receive  without  misgiving.  Most 
think  that  they  are  above  being  supported  by  the  town;  but  it 
oftener  happens  that  they  are  not  above  supporting  them- 
selves by  dishonest  means,  which  should  be  more  disreputable. 
Cultivate  poverty  like  a  garden  herb,  like  sage.  Do  not  trouble 
yourself  much  to  get  new  things,  whether  clothes  or  friends. 
Turn  the  old ;  return  to  them.  Things  do  not  change ;  we  change. 
Sell  your  clothes  and  keep  your  thoughts.  God  will  see  that 
you  do  not  want  society.  If  I  were  confined  to  a  corner  of  a 
garret  all  my  days,  like  a  spider,  the  world  would  be  just  as 
large  to  me  while  I  had  my  thoughts  about  me.  The  philosopher 
said:  "From  an  army  of  three  divisions  one  can  take  away  its 
general,  and  put  it  in  disorder;  from  the  man  the  most  abject 
and  vulgar  one  cannot  take  away  his  thought."  Do  not  seek  so 
anxiously  to  be  developed,  to  subject  yourself  to  many  influ- 
ences to  be  played  on;  it  is  all  dissipation.  Humility  like  dark- 
ness reveals  the  heavenly  Hghts.  The  shadows  of  poverty  and 
meanness  gather  around  us,  *'and  lo!  creation  widens  to  our 
view."  We  are  often  reminded  that  if  there  wxre  bestowed  on 
us  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  our  aims  must  still  be  the  same,  and 
our  means  essentially  the  same.  Moreover,  if  you  are  restricted 
in  your  range  by  poverty,  if  you  cannot  buy  books  and  news- 
papers, for  instance,  you  are  but  confined  to  the  most  signifi- 
cant and  vital  experiences;  you  are  compelled  to  deal  with  the 
material  which  yields  the  most  sugar  and  the  most  starch.  It  is 
life  near  the  bone  where  it  is  sweetest.  You  are  defended  from 
being  a  trifler.  No  man  loses  ever  on  a  lower  level  by  magna- 
nimity on  a  higher.  Superfluous  wealth  can  buy  superfluities 
only.  Money  is  not  required  to  buy  one  necessary  of  the  soul. 
I  live  in  the  angle  of  a  leaden  wall,  into  whose  composition 
was  poured  a  little  alloy  of  bell-metal.  Often,  in  the  repose  of 
my  mid-day,  there  reaches  my  ears  a  confused  tintinnahulum 
from  without.  It  is  the  noise  of  my  contemporaries.  My  neigh- 
bors tell  me  of  their  adventures  with  famous  gentlemen  and 
ladies,  what  notabilities  they  met  at  the  dinner-table;  but  I  am 
no  more  interested  in  such  things  than  in  the  contents  of  the 
Daily  Times.  The  interest  and  the  conversation  are  about 
costume  and  manners  chiefly;  but  a  goose  is  a  goose  still,  dress 


CONCLUSION  OF  "  WALDEN  "  465 

it  as  you  will.  They  tell  me  of  California  and  Texas,  of  England 
and  the  Indies,  of  the  Hon.  Mr. of  Georgia  or  of  Massa- 
chusetts, all  transient  and  fleeting  phenomena,  till  I  am  ready 
to  leap  from  their  court-yard  like  the  Mameluke  bey.^  I  delight 
to  come  to  my  bearings,  —  not  walk  in  procession  with  pomp 
and  parade,  in  a  conspicuous  place,  but  to  walk  even  with  the 
Builder  of  the  universe,  if  I  may,  —  not  to  live  in  this  restless, 
nervous,  bustling,  trivial  Nineteenth  Century,  but  stand  or  sit 
thoughtfully  while  it  goes  by.  What  are  men  celebrating?  They 
are  all  on  a  committee  of  arrangements,  and  hourly  expect  a 
speech  from  somebody.  God  is  only  the  president  of  the  day, 
and  Webster  is  his  orator.  I  love  to  weigh,  to  settle,  to  gravi- 
tate toward  that  which  most  strongly  and  rightfully  attracts 
me;  —  not  hang  by  the  beam  of  the  scale  and  try  to  weigh  less, 
—  not  suppose  a  case,  but  take  the  case  that  is;  to  travel  the 
only  path  I  can,  and  that  on  which  no  power  can  resist  me.  It 
affords  me  no  satisfaction  to  commence  to  spring  an  arch 
before  I  have  got  a  solid  foundation.  Let  us  not  play  at  kittly- 
benders.^  There  is  a  solid  bottom  everywhere.  We  read  that 
the  traveller  asked  the  boy  if  the  swamp  before  him  had  a  hard 
bottom.  The  boy  repHed  that  it  had.  But  presently  the 
traveller's  horse  sank  in  up  to  the  girths,  and  he  observed  to 
the  boy,  **  I  thought  you  said  that  this  bog  had  a  hard  bottom." 
"So  it  has,"  answered  the  latter,"  but  you  have  not  got  half- 
way to  it  yet."  So  it  is  with  the  bogs  and  quicksands  of  society; 
but  he  is  an  old  boy  that  knows  it.  Only  what  is  thought,  said, 
or  done  at  a  certain  rare  coincidence  is  good.  I  would  not  be 
one  of  those  who  will  foolishly  drive  a  nail  into  mere  lath  and 
plastering;  such  a  deed  would  keep  me  awake  nights.  Give  me 
a  hammer,  and  let  me  feel  for  the  furring.  Do  not  depend  on 
the  putty.  Drive  a  nail  home  and  clinch  it  so  faithfully  that 
you  can  wake  up  in  the  night  and  think  of  your  work  with  sat- 
isfaction, —  a  work  at  which  you  would  not  be  ashamed  to 
invoke  the  Muse.  So  will  help  you  God,  and  so  only.  Every 
nail  driven  should  be  as  another  rivet  in  the  machine  of  the 
imiverse,  you  carrying  on  the  work. 

^  A  member  of  the  Mamelukes,  who,  when  they  were  ambushed  by  the  vice- 
roy of  Egypt  at  the  citadel  of  Cairo  in  1811,  is  said  to  have  escaped  by  forcing  his 
horse  to  leap  from  the  ramparts.  / 

2  The  sport  of  running  over  thin,  bending  ice.  (U.S.,  coUoq.) 


466  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

Rather  than  love,  than  money,  than  fame,  give  me  truth. 
I  sat  at  a  table  where  were  rich  food  and  wine  in  abundance, 
and  obsequious  attendance,  but  sincerity  and  truth  were  not; 
and  I  went  away  hungry  from  the  inhospitable  board.  The 
hospitality  was  as  cold  as  the  ices.  I  thought  that  there  was  no 
need  of  ice  to  freeze  them.  They  talked  to  me  of  the  age  of  the 
wine  and  the  fame  of  the  vintage;  but  I  thought  of  an  older,  a 
newer,  and  purer  wine,  of  a  more  glorious  vintage,  which  they 
had  not  got,  and  could  not  buy.  The  style,  the  house  and 
grounds  and  "entertainment"  pass  for  nothing  with  me.  I 
called  on  the  king,  but  he  made  me  wait  in  his  hall,  and  con- 
ducted like  a  man  incapacitated  for  hospitality.  There  was  a 
man  in  my  neighborhood  who  lived  in  a  hollow  tree.  His  man- 
ners were  truly  regal.  I  should  have  done  better  had  I  called 
on  him. 

How  long  shall  we  sit  in  our  porticoes  practising  idle  and 
musty  virtues,  which  any  work  would  make  impertinent?  As 
if  one  were  to  begin  the  day  with  long-suffering,  and  hire  a  man 
to  hoe  his  potatoes;  and  in  the  afternoon  go  forth  to  practise 
Christian  meekness  and  charity  with  goodness  aforethought! 
Consider  the  China  pride  and  stagnant  self-complacency  of 
mankind.  'This  generation  inclines  a  little  to  congratulate  itself 
on  being  the  last  of  an  illustrious  line;  and  in  Boston  and  Lon- 
don and  Paris  and  Rome,  thinking  of  its  long  descent,  it  speaks 
of  its  progress  in  art  and  science  and  literature  with  satisfaction. 
There  are  the  Records  of  the  Philosophical  Societies,  and  the 
public  Eulogies  of  Great  Men  I  It  is  the  good  Adam  contem- 
plating his  own  virtue.  "Yes,  we  have  done  great  deeds,  and 
sung  divine  songs,  which  shall  never  die,"  —  that  is,  as  long 
as  we  can  remember  them.  The  learned  societies  and  great 
men  of  Assyria,  —  where  are  they?  What  youthful  philoso- 
phers and  experimentalists  we  are !  There  is  not  one  of  my  read- 
ers who  has  yet  lived  a  whole  human  life.  These  may  be  but 
the  spring  months  in  the  Hfe  of  the  race.  If  we  have  had  the 
seven-years'  itch,  we  have  not  seen  the  seventeen-year  locust 
yet  in  Concord.  We  are  acquainted  with  a  mere  pellicle  of  the 
globe  on  which  we  live.  Most  have  not  delved  six  feet  beneath 
the  surface,  nor  leaped  as  many  above  it.  We  know  not  where 
we  are.  Beside,  we  are  sound  asleep  nearly  half  our  time.  Yet 
we  esteem  ourselves  wise,  and  have  an  estabhshed  order  on  the 


CONCLUSION  OF   ''WALDEN"  467 

surface.  Truly,  we  are  deep  thinkers,  we  are  ambitious  spirits! 
As  I  stand  over  the  insect  crawling  amid  the  pine  needles  on 
the  forest  floor,  and  endeavoring  to  conceal  itself  from  my 
sight,  and  ask  myself  why  it  will  cherish  those  humble  thoughts, 
and  hide  its  head  from  me  who  might,  perhaps,  be  its  bene- 
factor, and  impart  to  its  race  some  cheering  information,  I  am 
reminded  of  the  greater  Benefactor  and  Intelligence  that  stands 
over  me  the  hvunan  insect. 

There  is  an  incessant  influx  of  novelty  into  the  world,  and 
yet  we  tolerate  incredible  dulness.  I  need  only  suggest  what 
kind  of  sermons  are  still  listened  to  in  the  most  enlightened 
countries.  There  are  such  words  as  joy  and  sorrow,  but  they 
are  only  the  burden  of  a  psalm,  sung  with  a  nasal  twang,  while 
we  believe  in  the  ordinary  and  mean.  We  think  that  we  can 
change  our  clothes  only.  It  is  said  that  the  British  Empire  is 
very  large  and  respectable,  and  that  the  United  States  are  a 
first-rate  power.  We  do  not  believe  that  a  tide  rises  and  falls 
behind  every  man  which  can  float  the  British  Empire  like  a 
chip,  if  he  should  ever  harbor  it  in  his  mind.  Who  knows  what 
sort  of  seventeen-year  locust  will  next  come  out  of  the  ground? 
The  government  of  the  world  I  live  in  was  not  framed,  like  that 
of  Britain,  in  after-dinner  conversations  over  the  wine. 

The  life  in  us  is  like  the  water  in  the  river.  It  may  rise  this 
year  higher  than  man  has  ever  known  it,  and  flood  the  parched 
uplands;  even  this  may  be  the  eventful  year,  which  will  drown 
out  all  our  muskrats.  It  was  not  always  dry  land  where  we 
dwell.  I  see  far  inland  the  banks  which  the  stream  anciently 
washed,  before  science  began  to  record  its  freshets.  Every  one 
has  heard  the  story  which  has  gone  the  rounds  of  New  Eng- 
land, of  a  strong  and  beautiful  bug  which  came  out  of  the  dry 
leaf  of  an  old  table  of  apple-tree  wood,  which  had  stood  in  a 
farmer's  kitchen  for  sixty  years,  first  in  Connecticut,  and  after- 
ward in  Massachusetts,  —  from  an  egg  deposited  in  the  living 
tree  many  years  earlier  still,  as  appeared  by  counting  the 
annual  layers  beyond  it;  which  was  heard  gnawing  out  for 
several  weeks,  hatched  perchance  by  the  heat  of  an  urn.  Who 
does  not  feel  his  faith  in  a  resurrection  and  immortaHty 
strengthened  by  hearing  of  this?  Who  knows  what  beautiful 
and  winged  life,  whose  egg  has  been  buried  for  ages  under  many 
concentric  layers  of  woodenness  in  the  dead  dry  life  of  society, 


468  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

deposited  at  first  in  the  alburnum  of  the  green  and  living  tree, 
which  has  been  gradually  converted  into  the  semblance  of  its 
well-seasoned  tomb,  —  heard  perchance  gnawing  out  now  tor 
years  by  the  astonished  family  of  man,  as  they  sat  round  the 
festive  board,  —  may  unexpectedly  come  forth  from  amidst 
society's  most  trivial  and  handselled  furniture,  to  enjoy  its 
perfect  summer  life  at  last! 

I  do  not  say  that  John  or  Jonathan^  will  realize  all  this;  but 
such  is  the  character  of  that  morrow  which  mere  lapse  of  time 
can  never  make  to  dawn.  The  light  which  puts  out  our  eyes  is 
darkness  to  us.  Only  that  day  dawns  to  which  we  are  awake. 
There  is  more  day  to  dawn.  The  sun  is  but  a  morning  star. 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  2 

At  a  lyceum,  not  long  since,  I  felt  that  the  lecturer  had 
chosen  a  theme  too  foreign  to  himself,  and  so  failed  to  interest 
me  as  much  as  he  might  have  done.  He  described  things  not 
in  or  near  to  his  heart,  but  toward  his  extremities  and  super- 
ficies. There  was,  in  this  sense,  no  truly  central  or  centralizing 
thought  in  the  lecture.  I  would  have  had  him  deal  with  his 
privatest  experience,  as  the  poet  does.  The  greatest  compli- 
ment that  was  ever  paid  me  was  when  one  asked  me  what 
/  thought,  and  attended  to  my  answer.  I  am  surprised,  as  well 
as  delighted,  when  this  happens,  it  is  such  a  rare  use  he  would 
make  of  me,  as  if  he  were  acquainted  with  the  tool.  Commonly, 
if  men  want  anything  of  me,  it  is  only  to  know  how  many 
acres  I  make  of  their  land,  —  since  I  am  a  surveyor,  —  or,  at 
most,  what  trivial  news  I  have  burdened  myself  with.  They 
never  will  go  to  law  for  my  meat;  they  prefer  the  shell.  A  man 
once  came  a  considerable  distance  to  ask  me  to  lecture  on 
Slavery;  but  on  conversing  with  him,  I  found  that  he  and  his 
cUque  expected  seven  eighths  of  the  lecture  to  be  theirs,  and 
only  one  eighth  mine;  so  I  declined.  I  take  it  for  granted,  when 
I  am  invited  to  lecture  anywhere,  —  for  I  have  had  a  Httle 
experience  in  that  business,  —  that  there  is  a  desire  to  hear 
what  /  think  on  some  subject,  though  I  may  be  the  greatest  fool 

*  John  Bull  and  Brother  Jonathan. 

2  A  posthumous  paper,  first  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  October,  1863; 
now  included  in  Miscellanies. 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  469 

in  the  country,  —  and  not^that  I  should  say  pleasant  things 
merely,  or  such  as  the  audience  will  assent  to;  and  I  resolve, 
accordingly,  that  I  will  give  them  a  strong  dose  of  myself.  They 
have  sent  for  me,  and  engaged  to  pay  for  me,  and  I  am  deter- 
mined that  they  shall  have  me,  though  I  bore  them  beyond  all 
precedent. 

So  now  I  would  say  something  similar  to  you,  my  readers. 
Since  you  are  my  readers,  and  I  have  not  been  much  of  a  travel- 
ler, I  will  not  talk  about  people  a  thousand  miles  off,  but  come 
as  near  home  as  I  can.  As  the  time  is  short,  I  will  leave  out  all 
the  flattery,  and  retain  all  the  criticism. 

Let  us  consider  the  way  in  which  we  spend  our  lives. 

This  world  is  a  place  of  business.  What  an  infinite  bustle! 
I  am  awaked  almost  every  night  by  the  panting  of  the  loco- 
motive. It  interrupts  my  dreams.  There  is  no  sabbath.  It 
would  be  glorious  to  see  mankind  at  leisure  for  once.  It  is 
nothing  but  work,  work,  work.  I  cannot  easily  buy  a  blank- 
book  to  write  thoughts  in;  they  are  commonly  ruled  for  dollars 
and  cents.  An  Irishman,  seeing  me  making  a  minute  in  the 
fields,  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was  calculating  my  wages.  If 
a  man  was  tossed  out  of  a  window  when  an  infant,  and  so  made 
a  cripple  for  life,  or  scared  out  of  his  wits  by  the  Indians,  it 
is  regretted  chiefly  because  he  was  thus  incapacitated  for  — 
business!  I  think  that  there  is  nothing,  not  even  crime,  more 
opposed  to  poetry,  to  philosophy,  ay,  to  life  itself,  than  this 
incessant  business. 

There  is  a  coarse  and  boisterous  money-making  fellow  in 
the  outskirts  of  our  town,  who  is  going  to  build  a  bank-wall 
under  the  hill  along  the  edge  of  his  meadow.  The  powers  have 
put  this  into  his  head  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief,  and  he 
wishes  me  to  spend  three  weeks  digging  there  with  him.  The 
result  will  be  that  he  will  perhaps  get  some  more  money  to 
hoard,  and  leave  for  his  heirs  to  spend  foohshly.  If  I  do  this, 
most  will  commend  me  as  an  industrious  and  hard-working 
man;  but  if  I  choose  to  devote  myself  to  certain  labors  which 
yield  more  real  profit,  though  but  little  money,  they  may  be 
inclined  to  look  on  me  as  an  idler.  Nevertheless,  as  I  do  not 
need  the  police  of  meaningless  labor  to  regulate  me,  and  do  not 
see  anything  absolutely  praiseworthy  in  this  fellow's  under- 
taking any  more  than  in  many  an  enterprise  of  our  own  or 


470  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

foreign  governments,  however  amusing  it  may  be  to  him  or 
them,  I  prefer  to  finish  my  education  at  a  different  school. 

If  a  man  walk  in  the  woods  for  love  of  them  half  of  each  day, 
he  is  in  danger  of  being  regarded  as  a  loafer;  but  if  he  spends 
his  whole  day  as  a  speculator,  shearing  off  those  woods  and 
making  earth  bald  before  her  time,  he  is  esteemed  an  industri- 
ous and  enterprising  citizen.  As  if  a  town  had  no  interest  in  its 
forests  but  to  cut  them  down! 

Most  men  would  feel  insulted  if  it  were  proposed  to  employ 
them  in  throwing  stones  over  a  wall,  and  then  in  throwing 
them  back,  merely  that  they  might  earn  their  wages.  But 
many  are  no  more  worthily  employed  now.  For  instance:  just 
after  sunrise,  one  summer  morning,  I  noticed  one  of  my  neigh- 
bors walking  beside  his  team,  which  was  slowly  drawing  a 
heavy  hewn  stone  swung  under  the  axle,  surrounded  by  an 
atmosphere  of  industry,  —  his  day's  work  begun,  —  his  brow 
commenced  to  sweat,  —  a  reproach  to  all  sluggards  and  idlers, 

—  pausing  abreast  the  shoulders  of  his  oxen,  and  half  turning 
round  with  a  flourish  of  his  merciful  whip,  while  they  gained 
their  length  on  him.  And  I  thought,  Such  is  the  labor  which 
the  American  Congress  exists  to  protect,  —  honest,  manly  toil, 

—  honest  as  the  day  is  long,  —  that  makes  his  bread  taste 
sweet,  and  keeps  society  sweet,  —  which  all  men  respect  and 
have  consecrated;  one  of  the  sacred  band,  doing  the  needful 
but  irksome  drudgery.  Indeed,  I  felt  a  slight  reproach,  because 
I  observed  this  from  a  window,  and  was  not  abroad  and  stirring 
about  a  similar  business.  The  day  went  by,  and  at  evening  I 
passed  the  yard  of  another  neighbor,  who  keeps  many  servants, 
and  spends  much  money  fooHshly,  while  he  adds  nothing  to  the 
common  stock,  and  there  I  saw  the  stone  of  the  morning  lying 
beside  a  whimsical  structure  intended  to  adorn  this  Lord 
Timothy  Dexter's  premises,  and  the  dignity  forthwith  de- 
parted from  the  teamster's  labor,  in  my  eyes.  In  my  opinion, 
the  sun  was  made  to  light  worthier  toil  than  this.  I  may  add 
that  his  employer  has  since  run  off,  in  debt  to  a  good  part  of 
the  town,  and,  after  passing  through  Chancery,  has  settled 
somewhere  else,  there  to  become  once  more  a  patron  of  the  arts. 

The  ways  by  which  you  may  get  money  almost  without 
exception  lead  downward.  To  have  done  anything  by  which 
you  earned  money  merely  is  to  have  been  truly  idle  or  worse. 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  471 

If  the  laborer  gets  no  more  than  the  wages  which  his  employer 
pays  him,  he  is  cheated,  he  cheats  himself.  If  you  would  get 
money  as  a  writer  or  lecturer,  you  must  be  popular,  which  is 
to  go  down  perpendicularly.  Those  services  which  the  com- 
munity will  most  readily  pay  for,  it  is  most  disagreeable  to 
render.  You  are  paid  for  being  something  less  than  a  man.  The 
State  does  not  commonly  reward  a  genius  any  more  wisely. 
Even  the  poet-laureate  would  rather  not  have  to  celebrate  the 
accidents  of  royalty.  He  must  be  bribed  with  a  pipe  of  wine; 
and  perhaps  another  poet  is  called  away  from  his  muse  to 
gauge  that  very  pipe.  As  for  my  own  business,  even  that  kind 
of  surveying  which  I  could  do  with  most  satisfaction  my  em- 
ployers do  not  want.  They  would  prefer  that  I  should  do  my 
work  coarsely  and  not  too  well,  ay,  not  well  enough.  When  I 
observe  that  there  are  different  ways  of  surveying,  my  employer 
commonly  asks  which  will  give  him  the  most  land,  not  which  is 
most  correct.  I  once  invented  a  rule  for  measuring  cord-wood, 
and  tried  to  introduce  it  in  Boston;  but  the  measurer  there  told 
me  that  the  sellers  did  not  wish  to  have  their  wood  measured 
correctly,  —  that  he  was  already  too  accurate  for  them,  and 
therefore  they  commonly  got  their  wood  measured  in  Charles- 
town  before  crossing  the  bridge. 

The  aim  of  the  laborer  should  be,  not  to  get  his  living,  to 
get "  a  good  job,"  but  to  perform  well  a  certain  work;  and,  even 
in  a  pecuniary  sense,  it  would  be  economy  for  a  town  to  pay 
its  laborers  so  well  that  they  would  not  feel  that  they  were 
working  for  low  ends,  as  for  a  livelihood  merely,  but  for'  scien- 
tific, or  even  moral  ends.  Do  not  hire  a  man  who  does  your 
work  for  money,  but  him  who  does  it  for  love  of  it. 

It  is  remarkable  that  there  are  few  men  so  well  employed, 
so  much  to  their  minds,  but  that  a  Httle  money  or  fame  would 
commonly  buy  them  off  from  their  present  pursuit.  I  see  ad- 
vertisements for  active  young  men,  as  if  activity  were  the  whole 
of  a  young  man's  capital.  Yet  I  have  been  surprised  when  one 
has  with  confidence  proposed  to  me,  a  grown  man,  to  embark 
in  some  enterprise  of  his,  as  if  I  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do, 
my  life  having  been  a  complete  failure  hitherto.  What  a  doubt- 
ful compliment  this  to  pay  me !  As  if  he  had  met  me  halfway 
across  the  ocean  beating  up  against  the  wind,  but  bound  no- 
where, and  proposed  to  me  to  go  along  with  him !  If  I  did,  what 


472.  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU . 

do  you  think  the  underwriters  would  say?  No,  no !  I  am  not 
without  employment  at  this  stage  of  the  voyage.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  saw  an  advertisement  for  able-bodied  seamen,  when  I 
was  a  boy,  sauntering  in  my  native  port,  and  as  soon  as  I  came 
of  age  I  embarked. 

The  community  has  no  bribe  that  will  tempt  a  wise  man. 
You  may  raise  money  enough  to  tunnel  a  mountain,  but  you 
cannot  raise  money  enough  to  hire  a  man  who  is  minding  his 
own  business.  An  eflficient  and  valuable  man  does  what  he  can, 
whether  the  community  pay  him  for  it  or  not.  The  inefficient 
offer  their  inefficiency  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  are  forever 
expecting  to  be  put  into  office.  One  would  suppose  that  they 
were  rarely  disappointed. 

Perhaps  I  am  more  than  usually  jealous  with  respect  to  my 
freedom.  I  feel  that  my  connection  with  and  obligation  to 
society  are  still  very  slight  and  transient.  Those  slight  labors 
which  afford  me  a  livelihood,  and  by  which  it  is  allowed  that  I 
am  to  some  extent  serviceable  to  my  contemporaries,  are  as  yet 
commonly  a  pleasure  to  me,  and  I  am  not  often  reminded  that 
they  are  a  necessity.  So  far  I  am  successful.  But  I  foresee  that 
if  my  wants  should  be  much  increased,  the  labor  required  to 
supply  them  would  become  a  drudgery.  If  I  should  sell  both 
my  forenoons  and  afternoons  to  society,  as  most  appear  to  do, 
I  am  sure  that  for  me  there  would  be  nothing  left  worth  living 
for.  I  trust  that  I  shall  never  thus  sell  my  birthright  for  a  mess 
of  pottage.  I  wish  to  suggest  that  a  man  may  be  very  indus- 
trious, and  yet  not  spend  his  time  well.  There  is  no  more  fatal 
blunderer  than  he  who  consumes  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
getting  his  living.  All  great  enterprises  are  self-supporting. 
The  poet,  for  instance,  must  sustain  his  body  by  his  poetry,  as 
a  steam  planing-mill  feeds  its  boilers  with  the  shavings  it  makes. 
You  must  get  your  living  by  loving.^  But  as  it  is  said  of  the 
merchants  that  ninety-seven  in  a  hundred  fail,  so  the  life  of 
men  generally,  tried  by  this  standard,  is  a  failure,  and  bank- 
ruptcy may  be  surely  prophesied. 

Merely  to  come  into  the  world  the  heir  of  a  fortune  is  not 
to  be  bom,  but  to  be  still-born,  rather.  To  be  supported  by 
the  charity  of  friends,  or  a  government-pension,  —  provided 
you  continue  to  breathe,  —  by  whatever  fine  synonyms  you 

*  Living? 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  473 

describe  these  relations,  is  to  go  into  the  ahnshouse.  On  Sun- 
days the  poor  debtor  goes  to  church  to  take  an  account  of 
stock,  and  finds,  of  course,  that  his  outgoes  have  been  greater 
than  his  income.  In  the  CathoHc  Church,  especially,  they  go 
into  Chancery,  make  a  clean  confession,  give  up  all,  and  think 
to  start  again.  Thus  men  will  lie  on  their  backs,  talking  about 
the  fall  of  man,  and  never  make  an  effort  to  get  up. 

As  for  the  comparative  demand  which  men  make  on  life,  it 
is  an  important  difference  between  two,  that  the  one  is  satisfied 
with  a  level  success,  that  his  marks  can  all  be  hit  by  point- 
blank  shots,  but  the  other,  however  low  and  unsuccessful  his 
life  may  be,  constantly  elevates  his  aim,  though  at  a  very  slight 
angle  to  the  horizon.  I  should  much  rather  be  the  last  man,  — 
though,  as  the  Orientals  say,  "Greatness  doth  not  approach 
him  who  is  forever  looking  down;  and  all  those  who  are  looking 
high  are  growing  poor." 

It  is  remarkable  that  there  is  Httle  or  nothing  to  be  remem- 
bered written  on  the  subject  of  getting  a  living;  how  to  make 
getting  a  living  not  merely  honest  and  honorable,  but  alto- 
gether inviting  and  glorious;  for  if  getting  a  living  is  not  so,  then 
living  is  not.  One  would  think,  from  looking  at  literature,  that 
this  question  had  never  disturbed  a  solitary  individual's  mus- 
ings. Is  it  that  men  are  too  much  disgusted  with  their  experi- 
ence to  speak  of  it?  The  lesson  of  value  which  money  teaches, 
which  the  Author  of  the  Universe  has  taken  so  much  pains  to 
teach  us,  we  are  inclined  to  skip  altogether.  As  for  the  means 
of  living,  it  is  wonderful  how  indifferent  men  of  all  classes  are 
about  it,  even  reformers,  so  called,  —  whether  they  inherit, 
or  earn,  or  steal  it.  I  think  that  Society  has  done  nothing  for  us 
in  this  respect,  or  at  least  has  undone  what  she  has  done.  Cold 
and  hunger  seem  more  friendly  to  my  nature  than  those  meth- 
ods which  men  have  adopted  and  advise  to  ward  them  off. 

The  title  wise  is,  for  the  most  part,  falsely  applied.  How  can 
one  be  a  wise  man,  if  he  does  not  know  any  better  how  to  Hve 
than  other  men?  —  if  he  is  only  more  cunning  and  intellectu- 
ally subtle?  Does  Wisdom  work  in  a  treadmill?  or  does  she 
teach  how  to  succeed  by  her  example?  Is  there  any  such  thing 
as  wisdom  not  applied  to  Hfe?  Is  she  merely  the  miller  who 
grinds  the  finest  logic?  It  is  pertinent  to  ask  if  Plato  got  his 
living  in  a  better  way  or  more  successfully  than  his  contempo- 


474  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

raries,  —  or  did  he  succumb  to  the  difficulties  of  life  like  other 
men?  Did  he  seem  to  prevail  over  some  of  them  merely  by  in- 
difference, or  by  assuming  grand  airs?  or  find  it  easier  to  live, 
because  his  aunt  remembered  him  in  her  will?  The  ways  in 
which  most  men  get  their  living,  that  is,  Hve,  are  mere  make- 
shifts, and  a  shirking  of  the  real  business  of  life,  —  chiefly 
because  they  do  not  know,  but  partly  because  they  do  not 
mean,  any  better. 

The  rush  to  California,  for  instance,  and  the  attitude,  not 
merely  of  merchants,  but  of  philosophers  and  prophets,  so 
called,  in  relation  to  it,  reflect  the  greatest  disgrace  on  mankind. 
That  so  many  are  ready  to  live  by  luck,  and  so  get  the  means  of 
commanding  the  labor  of  others  less  lucky,  without  contribut- 
ing any  value  to  society !  And  that  is  called  enterprise!  I  know 
of  no  more  startling  development  of  the  immorality  of  trade, 
and  all  the  common  modes  of  getting  a  living.  The  philosophy 
and  poetry  and  religion  of  such  a  mankind  are  not  worth  the 
dust  of  a  puff-ball.  The  hog  that  gets  his  living  by  rooting, 
stirring  up  the  soil  so,  would  be  ashamed  of  such  company. 
If  I  could  command  the  wealth  of  all  the  worlds  by  Hfting  my 
finger,  I  would  not  pay  such  a  price  for  it.  Even  Mahomet  knew 
that  God  did  not  make  this  world  in  jest.  It  makes  God  to  be 
a  moneyed  gentleman  who  scatters  a  handful  of  pennies  in 
order  to  see  mankind  scramble  for  them.  The  world's  raffle! 
A  subsistence  in  the  domains  of  Nature  a  thing  to  be  rafl[led  for ! 
What  a  comment,  what  a  satire,  on  our  institutions !  The  con- 
clusion will  be,  that  mankind  will  hang  itself  upon  a  tree.  And 
have  all  the  precepts  in  all  the  Bibles^  taught  men  only  this? 
and  is  the  last  and  most  admirable  invention  of  the  human  race 
only  an  improved  muck-rake?  Is  this  the  ground  on  which 
Orientals  and  Occidentals  meet?  Did  God  direct  us  so  to  get 
our  living,  digging  where  we  never  planted,  —  and  He  would, 
perchance,  reward  us  with  lumps  of  gold? 

God  gave  the  righteous  man  a  certificate  entitling  him  to 
food  and  raiment,  but  the  unrighteous  man  found  a  facsimile 
of  the  same  in  God's  coffers,  and  appropriated  it,  and  obtained 

*  "The  reading  which  I  love  best  is  the  scriptures  of  the  several  nations, 
though  it  happens  that  I  am  better  acquainted  with  those  of  the  Hindoos,  the 
Chinese,  and  the  Persians,  than  of  the  Hebrews,  which  I  have  come  to  last."  {A 
Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers,  p.  72.) 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  475 

food  and  raiment  like  the  fdrmer.  It  is  one  of  the  most  exten- 
sive systems  of  counterfeiting  that  the  world  has  seen.  I  did 
not  know  that  mankind  were  suffering  for  want  of  gold.  I  have 
seen  a  little  of  it.  I  know  that  it  is  very  malleable,  but  not  so 
malleable  as  wit.  A  grain  of  gold  will  gild  a  great  surface,  but 
not  so  much  as  a  grain  of  wisdom. 

The  gold-digger  in  the  ravines  of  the  mountains  is  as  much 
a  gambler  as  his  fellow  in  the  saloons  of  San  Francisco.  What 
difference  does  it  make  whether  you  shake  dirt  or  shake  dice? 
If  you  win,  society  is  the  loser.  The  gold-digger  is  the  enemy  of 
the  honest  laborer,  whatever  checks  and  compensations  there 
may  be.  It  is  not  enough  to  tell  me  that  you  worked  hard  to 
get  your  gold.  So  does  the  Devil  work  hard.  The  way  of  trans- 
gressors may  be  hard  in  many  respects.  The  humblest  observer 
who  goes  to  the  mines  sees  and  says  that  gold-digging  is  of  the 
character  of  a  lottery;  the  gold  thus  obtained  is  not  the  same 
thing  with  the  wages  of  honest  toil.  But,  practically,  he  for- 
gets what  he  has  seen,  for  he  has  seen  only  the  fact,  not  the 
principle,  and  goes  into  trade  there,  that  is,  buys  a  ticket  in 
what  commonly  proves  another  lottery,  where  the  fact  is  not 
so  obvious. 

After  reading  Howitt's  account  of  the  Australian  gold- 
diggings  one  evening,  I  had  in  my  mind's  eye,  all  night,  the 
numerous  valleys,  with  their  streams,  all  cut  up  with  foul  pits, 
from  ten  to  one  hundred  feet  deep,  and  half  a  dozen  feet  across, 
as  close  as  they  can  be  dug,  and  partly  filled  with  water,  —  the 
locality  to  which  men  furiously  rush  to  probe  for  their  fortunes, 
—  uncertain  where  they  shall  break  ground,  —  not  knowing 
but  the  gold  is  under  their  camp  itself,  —  sometimes  digging 
one  hundred  and  sixty  feet  before  they  strike  the  vein,  or  then 
missing  it  by  a  foot,  —  turned  into  demons,  and  regardless  of 
each  others'  rights,  in  their  thirst  for  riches,  —  whole  valleys, 
for  thirty  miles,  suddenly  honeycombed  by  the  pits  of  the 
miners,  so  that  even  hundreds  are  drowned  in  them,  —  stand- 
ing in  water,  and  covered  with  mud  and  clay,  they  work  night 
and  day,  dying  of  exposure  and  disease.  Having  read  this,  and 
partly  forgotten  it,  I  was  thinking,  accidentally,  of  my  own 
unsatisfactory  Hfe,  doing  as  others  do;  and  with  that  vision  of 
the  diggings  still  before  me,  I  asked  myself  why  /  might  not  be 
washing  some  gold  daily,  though  it  were  only  the  finest  parti- 


476  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

cles,  —  why  /  might  not  sink  a  shaft  down  to  the  gold  within 
me,  and  work  that  mine.  There  is  a  Ballarat,  a  Bendigo^  for 
you,  —  what  though  it  were  a  sulky-gully?  At  any  fate,  I 
might  pursue  some  path,  however  solitary  and  narrow  and 
crooked,  in  which  I  could  walk  with  love  and  reverence.  Wher- 
ever a  man  separates  from  the  multitude,  and  goes  his  own  way 
in  this  mood,  there  indeed  is  a  fork  in  the  road,  though  ord- 
inary travellers  may  see  only  a  gap  in  the  paling.  His  solitary 
path  across-lots  will  turn  out  the  higher  way  of  the  two. 

Men  rush  to  California  and  Australia  as  if  the  true  gold 
were  to  be  found  in  that  direction;  but  that  is  to  go  to  the  very- 
opposite  extreme  to  where  it  lies.  They  go  prospecting  farther 
and  farther  away  from  the  true  lead,  and  are  most  unfortunate 
when  they  think  themselves  most  successful.  Is  not  our  native 
soil  auriferous?  Does  not  a  stream  from  the  golden  mountains 
flow  through  our  native  valley?  and  has  not  this  for  more  than 
geologic  ages  been  bringing  down  the  shining  particles  and  form- 
ing the  nuggets  for  us?  Yet,  strange  to  tell,  if  a  digger  steal 
away,  prospecting  for  this  true  gold,  into  the  unexplored  soli- 
tudes around  us,  there  is  no  danger  that  any  will  dog  his  steps, 
and  endeavor  to  supplant  him.  He  may  claim  and  undermine 
the  whole  valley  even,  both  the  cultivated  and  the  uncultivated 
portions,  his  whole  life  long  in  peace,  for  no  one  will  ever  dis- 
pute his  claim.  They  will  not  mind  his  cradles  or  his  toms.  He 
is  not  confined  to  a  claim  twelve  feet  square,  as  at  Ballarat, 
but  may  mine  anywhere,  and  wash  the  whole  wide  world  in  his 
tom. 

Howitt  says  of  the  man  who  found  the  great  nugget  which 
weighed  twenty-eight  pounds,  at  the  Bendigo  diggings  in  Aus- 
tralia: *'He  soon  began  to  drink;  got  a  horse,  and  rode  all  about, 
generally  at  full  gallop,  and,  when  he  met  people,  called  out  to 
inquire  if  they  knew  who  he  was,  and  then  kindly  informed 
them  that  he  was  ^' the  bloody  wretch  that  had  found  the  nug- 
get.' At  last  he  rode  full  speed  against  a  tree,  and  nearly 
knocked  his  brains  out."  I  think,  however,  there  was  no  dan- 
ger of  that,  for  he  had  already  knocked  his  brains  out  against 
the  nugget.  Howitt  adds,  "He  is  a  hopelessly  ruined  man." 
But  he  is  a  type  of  the  class.  They  are  all  fast  men.  Hear  some 
of  the  names  of  the  places  where  they  dig:  "Jackass  Flat,"  — 

^  Cities  in  Australia,  near  the  gold  mines. 


'  LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE      *  477 

"Sheep's-Head  Gully,"  —  "Murderer's  Bar,"  etc.  Is  there  no 
satire  in  these  names?  Let  them  carry  their  ill-gotten  wealth 
where  they  will,  I  am  thinking  it  will  still  be  "Jackass  Flat,"  if 
not  "Murderer's  Bar,"  where  they  live.    • 

The  last  resource  of  our  energy  has  been  the  robbing  of 
graveyards  on  the  Isthmus  of  Darien,  an  enterprise  which 
appears  to  be  but  in  its  infancy;  for,  according  to  late  accounts, 
an  act  has  passed  its  second  reading  in  the  legislature  of  New 
Granada,  regulating  this  kind  of  mining;  and  a  correspondent 
of  the  Tribune  writes:  "In  the  dry  season,  when  the  weather 
will  permit  of  the  country  being  properly  prospected,  no  doubt 
other  rich  guacas  [that  is,  graveyards]  will  be  found."  To  emi- 
grants he  says:  "Do  not  come  before  December;  take  the 
Isthmus  route  in  preference  to  the  Boca  del  Toro  one;  bring  no 
useless  baggage,  and  do  not  cumber  yourself  with  a  tent;  but  a 
good  pair  of  blankets  will  be  necessary;  a  pick,  shovel,  and  axe 
of  good  material  will  be  almost  all  that  is  required":  advice 
w^hich  might  have  been  taken  from  the  Burker's  Guide.  And 
he  concludes  with  this  line  in  italics  and  small  capitals:  ^^  If  you 
are  doing  well  at  home,  stay  there,"  which  may  fairly  be  inter- 
preted to  mean,  "If  you  are  getting  a  good  living  by  robbing 
graveyards  at  home,  stay  there." 

But  why  go  to  California  for  a  text?  She  is  the  child  of  New 
England,  bred  at  her  own  school  and  church. 

It  is  remarkable  that  among  all  the  preachers  there  are  so 
few  moral  teachers.  The  prophets  are  employed  in  excusing 
the  ways  of  men.  Most  reverend  seniors,  the  illuminati  of  the 
age,  tell  me,  with  a  gracious,  reminiscent  smile,  betwixt  an 
aspiration  and  a  shudder,  not  to  be  too  tender  about  these 
things,  —  to  lump  all  that,  that  is,  make  a  limip  of  gold  of  it. 
The  highest  advice  I  have  heard  on  these  subjects  was  grovel- 
ing. The  burden  of  it  was,  —  It  is  not  worth  your  while  to 
imdertake  to  reform  the  world  in  this  particular.  Do  not  ask 
how  your  bread  is  buttered ;  it  will  make  you  sick,  if  you  do,  — 
and  the  like.  A  man  had  better  starve  at  once  than  lose  his 
innocence  in  the  process  of  getting  his  bread.  If  within  the 
sophisticated  man  there  is  not  an  imsophisticated  one,  then  he 
is  but  one  of  the  Devil's  angels.  As  we  grow  old,  we  live  more 
coarsely,  we  relax  a  little  in  our  disciplines,  and,  to  some  extent, 
cease  to  obey  our  finest  instincts.   But  we  should  be  fastidious 


478  .  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

to  the  extreme  of  sanity,  disregarding  the  gibes  of  those  who 
are  more  unfortunate  than  ourselves. 

In  our  science  and  philosophy,  even,  there  is  commonly  no 
true  and  absolute  account  of  things.  The  spirit  of  sect  and 
bigotry  has  planted  its  hoof  amid  the  stars.  You  have  only  to 
discuss  the  problem,  whether  the  stars  are  inhabited  or  not,  in* 
order  to  discover  it.  Why  must  we  daub  the  heavens  as  well 
as  the  earth?  It  was  an  unfortunate  discovery  that  Dr.  Kane 
was  a  Mason,  and  that  Sir  John  Franklin  was  another.  But  it 
was  a  more  cruel  suggestion  that  possibly  that  was  the  reason 
why  the  former  went  in  search  of  the  latter.  There  is  not  a 
popular  magazine  in  this  country  that  would  dare  to  print  a 
child's  thought  on  important  subjects  without  comment.  It 
must  be  submitted  to  the  D.D.'s.  I  would  it  were  the  chicka- 
dee-dees. 

You  come  from  attending  the  funeral  of  mankind  to  attend 
to  a  natural  phenomenon.  A  little  thought  is  sexton  to  all  the 
world. 

I  hardly  know  an  intellectual  man,  even,  who  is  so  broad  and 
truly  liberal  that  yoa  can  think  aloud  in  his  society.  Most  with 
whom  you  endeavor  to  talk  soon  come  to  a  stand  against  some 
institution  in  which  they  appear  to  hold  stock,  —  that  is,  some 
particular,  not  universal,  way  of  viewing  things.  They  will 
continually  thrust  their  own  low  roof,  with  its  narrow  sky- 
light, between  you  and  the  sky,  when  it  is  the  unobstructed 
heavens  you  would  view.  Get  out  of  the  way  with  your  cob- 
webs, wash  your  windows,  I  say!  In  some  lyceums  they  tell 
me  that  they  have  voted  to  exclude  the  subject  of  religion. 
But  how  do  I  know  what  their  religion  is,  and  when  I  am  near 
to  or  far  from  it?  I  have  walked  into  such  an  arena  and  done 
my  best  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  what  religion  I  have  experi- 
enced, and  the  audience  never  suspected  what  I  was  about. 
The  lecture  was  as  harmless  as  moonshine  to  them.  Whereas,  if 
I  had  read  to  them  the  biography  of  the  greatest  scamps  in 
history,  they  might  have  thought  that  I  had  written  the  lives 
of  the  deacons  of  their  church.  Ordinarily,  the  inquiry  is, 
Where  did  you  come  from?  or.  Where  are  you  going?  That  was 
a  more  pertinent  question  which  I  overheard  one  of  my  audi- 
tors put  to  another  once,  —  "What  does  he  lecture  for?"  It 
made  me  quake  in  my  shoes. 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  479 

To  speak  impartially,  the  best  men  that  I  know  are  not 
serene,  a  world  in  themselves.  For  the  most  part,  they  dwell  in 
forms,  and  flatter  and  study  effect  only  more  jGinely  than  the 
rest.  We  select  granite  for  the  imderpinning  of  our  houses  and 
bams;  we  build  fences  of  stone;  but  we  do  not  ourselves  rest 
on  an  underpinning  of  granitic  truth,  the  lowest  primitive  rock. 
Our  sills  are  rotten.  What  stuff  is  the  man  made  of  who  is  not 
coexistent  in  our  thought  with  the  purest  and  subtilest  truth? 
I  often  accuse  my  finest  acquaintances  of  an  immense  frivolity; 
for,  while  there  are  manners  and  comphments  we  do  not  meet, 
we  do  not  teach  one  another  the  lessons  of  honesty  and  sincer- 
ity that  the  brutes  do,  or  of  steadiness  and  soHdity  that  the 
rocks  do.  The  fault  is  commonly  mutual,  however;  for  we  do 
not  habitually  demand  any  more  of  each  other. 

That  excitement  about  Kossuth,  consider  how  character- 
istic, but  superficial,  it  was!  —  only  another  kind  of  politics  or 
dancing.  Men  were  making  speeches  to  him  all  over  the  coun- 
try,  but  each  expressed  only  the  thought,  or  the  want  of 
thought,  of  the  multitude.  No  man  stood  on  truth.  They 
were  merely  banded  together,  as  usual  one  leaning  on  another, 
and  all  together  on  nothing;  as  the  Hindoos  made  the  world 
rest  on  an  elephant,  the  elephant  on  a  tortoise,  and  the  tortoise 
on  a  serpent,  and  had  nothing  to  put  under  the  serpent.  For 
all  fruit  of  that  stir  we  have  the  Kossuth  hat. 

Just  so  hollow  and  ineffectual,  for  the  most  part,  is  our  ordi- 
nary conversation.  Surface  meets  surface.  When  our  life  ceases 
to  be  inward  and  private,  conversation  degenerates  into  mere 
gossip.  We  rarely  meet  a  man  who  can  tell  us  any  news  which 
he  has  not  read  in  a  newspaper,  or  been  told  by  his  neighbor; 
and,  for  the  most  part,  the  only  difference  between  us  and  our 
fellow  is  that  he  has  seen  the  newspaper,  or  been  out  to  tea, 
and  we  have  not.  In  proportion  as  our  inward  Ufe  fails,  we  go 
more  constantly  and  desperately  to  the  post-office.  You  may 
depend  on  it,  that  the  poor  fellow  who  walks  away  with  the 
greatest  mmiber  of  letters  proud  of  his  extensive  correspond- 
ence has  not  heard  from  himself  this  long  while. 

I  do  not  know  but  it  is  too  much  to  read  one  newspaper  a 
week.  I  have  tried  it  recently,  and  for  so  long  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  not  dwelt  in  my  native  region.  The  sim,  the  clouds, 
the  snow,  the  trees  saynot  so  much  to  me.  You  cannot  serve 


48o  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

two  masters.  It  requires  more  than  a  day's  devotion  to  know 
and  to  possess  the  wealth  of  a  day. 

''We  may  well  be  ashamed  to  tell  what  things  we  have  read 
or  heard  in  our  day.  I  do  not  know  why  my  news  should  be  so 
trivial,  —  considering  what  one's  dreams  and  expectations  are, 
why  the  developments  should  be  so  paltry.  The  news  we  hear, 
for  the  most  part,  is  not  news  to  our  genius.  It  is  the  stalest 
repetition.  You  are  often  tempted  to  ask  why  such  stress  is  laid 
on  a  particular  experience  which  you  have  had,  —  that,  after 
twenty-five  years,  you  should  meet  Hobbins,  Registrar  of 
Deeds,  again  on  the  sidewalk.  Have  you  not  budged  an  inch, 
then?  Such  is  the  daily  news.  Its  facts  appear  to  float  in  the 
atmosphere,  insignificant  as  the  sporules  of  fungi,  and  impinge 
on  some  neglected  thallus,  or  surface  of  our  minds,  which 
affords  a  basis  for  them,  and  hence  a  parasitic  growth.  We 
should  wash  ourselves  clean  of  such  news.  Of  what  conse- 
quence, though  our  planet  explode,  if  there  is  no  character 
involved  in  the  explosion?  In  health  we  have  not  the  least 
curiosity  about  such  events.  We  do  not  live  for  idle  amuse- 
ment. I  would  not  run  roimd  a  corner  to  see  the  world  blow 
up. 

All  summer,  and  far  into  the  autumn,  perchance,  you  un- 
consciously went  by  the  newspapers  and  the  news,  and  now 
you  find  it  was  because  the  morning  and  the  evening  were  full 
of  news  to  you.  Your  walks  were  full  of  incidents.  You  at- 
tended, not  to  the  affairs  of  Europe,  but  to  your  own  affairs 
ih  Massachusetts  fields.  If  you  chance  to  live  and  move  and 
have  your  being  in  that  thin  stratum  in  which  the  events  that 
make  the  news  transpire,  —  thinner  than  the  paper  on  which 
it  is  printed,  —  then  these  things  will  fill  the  world  for  you;  but 
if  you  soar  above  or  dive  below  that  plane,  you  cannot  remem- 
ber nor  be  reminded  of  them.  Really  to  see  the  sun  rise  or 
go  down  every  day,  so  to  relate  ourselves  to  a  universal  fact, 
would  preserve  us  sane  forever.  Nations!  What  are  nations? 
Tartars,  and  Huns,  and  Chinamen !  Like  insects,  they  swarm. 
The  historian  strives  in  vain  to  make  them  memorable.  It  is 
for  want  of  a  man  that  there  are  so  many  men.  It  is  individuals 

that  populate  the  world.  Any  man  thinking  may  say  with  the 

Spirit  of  Lodin,  — 


LIFE   WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  481 

"I  look  down  from  my  height  on  nations, 
And  they  become  ashes  before  me;  — 
Calm  is  my  dwelling  in  the  clouds; 
Pleasant  are  the  great  fields  of  my  rest." 

Pray,  let  us  live  without  being  drawn  by  dogs,  Esquimaux- 
fashion,  tearing  over  hill  and  dale,  and  biting  each  other's  ears. 

Not  without  a  slight  shudder  at  the  danger,  I  often  perceive 
how  near  I  had  come  to  admitting  into  my  mind  the  details  of 
some  trivial  affair,  —  the  news  of  the  street;  and  I  am  aston- 
ished to  observe  how  willing  men  are  to  lumber  their  minds 
with  such  rubbish,  —  to  permit  idle  rumors  and  incidents  of  the 
most  insignificant  kind  to  intrude  on  ground  which  should  be 
sacred  to  thought.  Shall  the  mind  be  a  public  arena,  where  the 
affairs  of  the  street  and  the  gossip  of  the  tea-table  chiefly  are 
discussed?  Or  shall  it  be  a  quarter  of  heaven  itself,  —  an  hypae- 
thral  temple,  consecrated  to  the  service  of  the  gods?  I  find  it  so 
difficult  to  dispose  of  the  few  facts  which  to  me  are  significant, 
that  I  hesitate  to  burden  my  attention  with  those  which  are 
insignificant,  which  only  a  divine  mind  could  illustrate.  Such 
is,  for  the  most  part,  the  news  in  newspapers  and  conversation. 
It  is  important  to  preserve  the  mind's  chastity  in  this  respect. 
Think  of  admitting  the  details  of  a  single  case  of  the  criminal 
court  into  our  thoughts,  to  stalk  profanely  through  their  very 
safictuni  sanctorum  for  an  hour,  ay,  for  many  hours!  to  make  a 
very  bar-room  of  the  mind's  inmost  apartment,  as  if  for  so  long 
the  dust  of  the  street  had  occupied  us,  —  the  very  street  itself, 
with  all  its  travel,  its  bustle,  and  fiJth,  had  passed  through  our 
thoughts'  shrine!  Would  it  not  be  an  intellectual  and  moral 
suicide?  When  I  have  been  compelled  to  sit  spectator  and 
auditor  in  a  courtroom  for  some  hours,  and  have  seen  my 
neighbors,  who  were  not  compelled,  stealing  in  from  time  to 
time,  and  tiptoeing  about  with  washed  hands  and  faces,  it  has 
appeared  to  my  mind's  eye,  that,  when  they  took  off  their  hats, 
their  ears  suddenly  expanded  into  vast  hoppers  for  sound, 
between  which  even  their  narrow  heads  were  crowded.  Like 
the  vanes  of  windmills,  they  caught  the  broad  but  shallow 
stream  of  sound,  which,  after  a  few  titillating  gyrations  in 
their  coggy  brains,  passed  out  the  other  side.  I  wondered  if, 
when  they  got  home,  they  were  as  careful  to  wash  their  ears  as 
before  their  hands  and  faces.  It  has  seemed  to  me,  at  such  a 


482  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

time,  that  the  auditors  and  the  witnesses,  the  jury  and  the 
counsel,  the  judge  and  the  criminal  at  the  bar,  —  if  I  may 
presume  him  guilty  before  he  is  convicted,  —  were  all  equally 
criminal,  and  a  thunderbolt  might  be  expected  to  descend  and 
consume  them  all  together. 

By  all  kinds  of  traps  and  signboards,  threatening  the  extreme 
penalty  of  the  divine  law,  exclude  such  trespassers  from  the 
only  ground  which  can  be  sacred  to  you.  It  is  so  hard  to  forget 
what  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  remember!  If  I  am  to  be  a 
thoroughfare,  I  prefer  that  it  be  of  the  moim tain-brooks,  the 
Parnassian  streams,  and  not  the  town-sewers.  There  is  inspira- 
tion, that  gossip  which  comes  to  the  ear  of  the  attentive  mind 
from  the  courts  of  heaven.  There  is  the  profane  and  stale  reve- 
lation of  the  bar-room  and  the  police  court.  The  same  ear  is 
fitted  to  receive  both  communications.  Only  the  character  of 
the  hearer  determines  to  which  it  shall  be  open,  and  to  which 
closed.  I  believe  that  the  mind  can  be  permanently  profaned 
by  the  habit  of  attending  to  trivial  things,  so  that  all  our 
thoughts  shall  be  tinged  with  triviality.  Our  very  intellect  shall 
be  macadamized,  as  it  were,  —  its  foundation  broken  into  frag- 
ments for  the  wheels  of  travel  to  roll  over;  and  if  you  would 
know  what  will  make  the  most  durable  pavement,  surpassing 
rolled  stones,  spruce  blocks,  and  asphaltumx,  you  have  only  to 
look  into  some  of  our  minds  which  have  been  subjected  to  this 
treatment  so  long. 

If  we  have  thus  desecrated  ourselves,  —  as  who  has  not?  — 
the  remedy  will  be  by  wariness  and  devotion  to  reconsecrate 
ourselves,  and  make  once  more  a  fane  of  the  mind.  We  should 
treat  our  minds,  that  is,  ourselves,  as  innocent  and  ingenuous 
children,  whose  guardians  we  are,  and  be  careful  what  objects 
and  what  subjects  we  thrust  on  their  attention.  Read  not  the 
Times.  Read  the  Eternities.  Conventionalities  are  at  length 
as  bad  as  impurities.  Even  the  facts  of  science  may  dust  the 
mind  by  their  dryness,  unless  they  are  in  a  sense  effaced  each 
morning,  or  rather  rendered  fertile  by  the  dews  of  fresh  and 
living  truth.  Knowledge  does  not  come  to  us  by  details,  but  in 
flashes  of  Kght  from  heaven.  Yes,  every  thought  that  passes 
through  the  mind  helps  to  wear  and  tear  it,  and  to  deepen  the 
ruts,  which,  as  in  the  streets  of  Pompeii,  evince  how  much  it 
has  been  used.  How  many  things  there  are  concerning  which 


LIFE  WITHOUT  PRINCIPLE  483 

we  might  well  deliberate  whether  we  had  better  know  them,  — 
had  better  let  their  peddling-carts  be  driven,  even  at  the  slow- 
est trot  or  walk,  over  that  bridge  of  glorious  span  by  which 
we  trust  to  pass  at  last  from  the  farthest  brink  of  time  to  the 
nearest  shore  of  eternity !  Have  we  no  culture,  no  refinement, 
—  but  skill  only  to  Hve  coarsely  and  serve  the  Devil?  —  to 
acquire  a  Uttle  worldly  wealth,  or  fame,  or  liberty,  and  make 
a  false  show  with  it,  as  if  we  were  all  husk  and  shell,  with  no 
tender  and  living  kernel  to  us?  Shall  our  institutions  be  like 
those  chestnut-burs  which  contain  abortive  nuts,  perfect  only 
to  prick  the  fingers? 

America  is  said  to  be  the  arena  on  which  the  battle  of  free- 
dom is  to  be  fought;  but  surely  it  cannot  be  freedom  in  a  merely 
political  sense  that  is  meant.  Even  if  we  grant  that  the  Amer- 
ican has  freed  himself  from  a  poHtical  tyrant,  he  is  still  the 
slave  of  an  economical  and  moral  tyrant.  Now  that  the  repub- 
lic —  the  respublica  —  has  been  settled,  it  is  time  to  look  after 
the  res-privata,  —  the  private  state,  —  to  see,  as  the  Roman 
senate  charged  its  consuls,  "ne  quid  re^-PRiVAXA  detrimenti 
caper et,^^  that  the  private  state  receive  no  detriment. 

Do  we  call  this  the  land  of  the  free?  What  is  it  to  be  free 
from  King  George  and  continue  the  slaves  of  King  Prejudice? 
What  is  it  to  be  born  free  and  not  to  live  free?  What  is  the 
value  of  any  poHtical  freedom,  but  as  a  means  to  moral  free- 
dom? Is  it  a  freedom  to  be  slaves,  or  a  freedom  to  be  free,  of 
which  we  boast?  We  are  a  nation  of  politicians,  concerned 
about  the  outmost  defenses  only  of  freedom.  It  is  our  children's 
children  who  may  perchance  be  really  free.  We  tax  ourselves 
unjustly.  There  is  a  part  of  us  which  is  not  represented.  It  is 
taxation  without  representation.  We  quarter  troops,  we  quar- 
ter fools  and  cattle  of  all  sorts  upon  ourselves.  We  quarter 
our  gross  bodies  on  our  poor  souls,  till  the  former  eat  up  all 
the  latter's  substance. 

With  respect  to  a  true  culture  and  manhood,  we  are  essen- 
tially provincial  still,  not  metropolitan,  —  mere  Jonathans. 
We  are  provincial,  because  we  do  not  find  at  home  our  stand- 
ards; because  we  do  not  worship  truth,  but  the  reflection  of 
truth;  because  we  are  warped  and  narrowed  by  an  exclusive 
devotion  to  trade  and  commerce  and  manufactures  and  agri- 
culture and  the  like,  which  are  but  means,  and  not  the  end. 


484  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

So  is  the  English  Parliament  provincial.  Mere  country- 
bumpkins,  they  betray  themselves,  when  any  more  important 
question  arises  for  them  to  settle,  the  Irish  question,  for  in- 
stance, —  the  English  question  why  did  I  not  say?  Their 
natures  are  subdued  to  what  they  work  in.  Their  ^'good 
breeding  "  respects  only  secondary  objects.  The  finest  manners 
in  the  world  are  awkwardness  and  fatuity  when  contrasted  with 
a  finer  intelligence.  They  appear  but  as  the  fashions  of  past 
days,  —  mere  courtliness,  knee-buckles  and  small-clothes,  out 
of  date.  It  is  the  vice,  but  not  the  excellence  of  manners,  that 
they  are  continually  being  deserted  by  the  character;  they  are 
cast-off  clothes  or  shells,  claiming  the  respect  which  belonged 
to  the  living  creature.  You  are  presented  with  the  shells  in- 
stead of  the  meat,  and  it  is  no  excuse  generally,  that,  in  the 
case  of  some  fishes,  the  shells  are  of  more  worth  than  the  meat. 
The  man  who  thrusts  his  manners  upon  me  does  as  if  he  were 
to  insist  on  introducing  me  to  his  cabinet  of  curiosities,  when 
I  wished  to  see  himself.  It  was  not  in  this  sense  that  the  poet 
Decker  called  Christ  ^'the  first  true  gentleman  that  ever 
breathed."  I  repeat  that  in  this  sense  the  most  splendid  court 
in  Christendom  is  provincial,  having  authority  to  consult 
about  Transalpine  interests  only,  and  not  the  affairs  of  Rome. 
A  praetor  or  proconsul  would  suffice  to  settle  the  questions 
which  absorb  the  attention  of  the  English  Parliament  and  the 
American  Congress. 

Government  and  legislation!  these  I  thought  were  respect- 
able professions.  We  have  heard  of  heaven-born  Numas, 
Lycurguses,  and  Solons,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  whose 
names  at  least  may  stand  for  ideal  legislators;  but  think  of  leg- 
islating to  regulate  the  breeding  of  slaves,  or  the  exportation  of 
tobacco !  What  have  divine  legislators  to  do  with  the  exporta- 
tion or  the  importation  of  tobacco?  what  htunane  ones  with 
the  breeding  of  slaves?  Suppose  you  were  to  submit  the  ques- 
tion to  any  son  of  God,  —  and  has  He  no  children  in  the  nine- 
teenth century?  is  it  a  family  which  is  extinct?  —  in  what  con- 
dition would  you  get  it  again?  What  shall  a  State  like  Virginia 
say  for  itself  at  the  last  day,  in  which  these  have  been  the 
principal,  the  staple  productions?  What  ground  is  there  for 
patriotism  in  such  a  State?  I  derive  my  facts  from  statistical 
tables  which  the  States  themselves  have  published. 


LIFE   WITHOUT   PRINCIPLE  485 

A  commerce  that  whitens  every  sea  in  quest  of  nuts  and  rais- 
ins, and  makes  slaves  of  its  sailors  for  this  purpose!  I  saw,  the 
other  day,  a  vessel  which  had  been  wrecked,  and  many  lives 
lost,  and  her  cargo  of  rags,  juniper-berries,  and  bitter  almonds 
were  strewn  along  the  shore.  It  seemed  hardly  worth  the  while 
to  tempt  the  dangers  of  the  sea  between  Leghorn  and  New  York 
for  the  sake  of  a  cargo  of  juniper-berries  and  bitter  almonds. 
America  sending  to  the  Old  World  for  her  bitters!  Is  not  the 
seabrine,  is  not  ship-v\Teck,  bitter  enough  to  make  the  cup  of 
life  go  down  here?  .Yet  such,  to  a  great  extent,  is  our  boasted 
commerce;  and  there  are  those  who  style  themselves  statesmen 
and  philosophers  who  are  so  blind  as  to  think  that  progress 
and  civilization  depend  on  precisely  this  kind  of  interchange 
and  activity,  —  the  activity  of  flies  about  a  molasses-hogshead. 
Very  well,  observes  one,  if  men  were  oysters.  And  very  well, 
answer  I,  if  men  were  mosquitoes. 

Lieutenant  Hemdon,  whom  our  Government  sent  to  explore 
the  Amazon,  and,  it  is  said,  to  extend  the  area  of  slavery,  ob- 
serv^ed  that  there  was  wanting  there ''  an  industrious  and  active 
population,  who  know  what  the  comforts  of  life  are,  and  who 
have  artificial  wants  to  draw  out  the  great  resources  of  the 
country."  But  what  are  the  "artificial  wants"  to  be  encour- 
aged? Not  the  love  of  luxuries,  like  the  tobacco  and  slaves  of, 
I  believe,  his  native  Virginia,  nor  the  ice  and  granite  and  other 
material  wealth  of  our  native  New  England;  nor  are  "  the  great 
resources  of  a  country"  that  fertility  or  barrenness  of  soil 
which  produces  these.  The  chief  want,  in  every  State  that  I 
have  been  into,  was  a  high  and  earnest  purpose  in  its  inhabit- 
ants. This  alone  draws  out  "the  great  resources"  of  Nature, 
and  at  last  taxes  her  beyond  her  resources;  for  man  naturally 
dies  out  of  her.  When  we  want  culture  more  than  potatoes,  and 
illumination  more  than  sugar-plums,  then  the  great  resources 
of  a  world  are  taxed  and  drawn  out,  and  the  result,  or  staple 
production,  is,  not  slaves,  nor  operatives,  but  men,  —  those 
rare  fruits  called  heroes,  saints,  poets,  philosophers,  and 
redeemers. 

In  short,  as  a  snow-drift  is  formed  where  there  is  a  lull  in 
the  wind,  so,  one  would  say,  where  there  is  a  lull  of  truth,  an 
institution  springs  up.  But  the  truth  blows  right  on  over  it, 
nevertheless,  and  at  length  blows  it  down. 


486  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

What  is  called  politics  is  comparatively  something  so  super- 
ficial and  inhuman,  that  practically  I  have  never  fairly  recog- 
nized that  it  concerns  me  at  all.  The  newspapers,  I  perceive, 
devote  some  of  their  columns  specially  to  politics  or  govern- 
ment without  charge;  and  this,  one  would  say,  is  all  that  saves 
it;  but  as  I  love  literature  and  to  some  extent  the  truth  also, 
I  never  read  those  columns  at  any  rate.  I  do  not  wish  to  blunt 
my  sense  of  right  so  much.  I  have  not  got  to  answer  for  having 
read  a  single  President's  Message.  A  strange  age  of  the  world 
this,  when  empires,  kingdoms,  and  republics  come  a-begging 
to  a  private  man's  door,  and  utter  their  complaints  at  his 
elbow!  I  cannot  take  up  a  newspaper  but  I  find  that  some 
wretched  government  or  other,  hard  pushed,  and  on  its  last 
legs,  is  interceding  with  me,  the  reader,  to  vote  for  it,  —  more 
importunate  than  an  Italian  beggar;  and  if  I  have  a  mind  to 
look  at  its  certificate,  made,  perchance,  by  some  benevolent 
merchant's  clerk,  or  the  skipper  that  brought  it  over,  for  it  can- 
not speak  a  word  of  English  itself,  I  shall  probably  read  of  the 
eruption  of  some  Vesuvius,  or  the  overflowing  of  some  Po,  true 
or  forged,  which  brought  it  into  this  condition.  I  do  not  hesi- 
tate, in  such  a  case,  to  suggest  work,  or  the  almshouse;  or  why 
not  keep  its  castle  in  silence,  as  I  do  commonly?  The  poor 
President,  what  with  preserving  his  popularity  and  doing  his 
duty,  is  completely  bewildered.  The  newspapers  are  the  ruling 
power.  Any  other  government  is  reduced  to  a  few  marines  at 
Fort  Independence.  If  a  man  neglects  to  read  the  Daily  Times, 
government  will  go  down  on  its  knees  to  him,  for  this  is  the 
only  treason  in  these  days. 

Those  things  which  now  most  engage  the  attention  of  men, 
as  politics  and  the  daily  routine,  are,  it  is  true,  vital  functions 
of  human  society,  but  should  be  unconsciously  performed,  like 
the  corresponding  functions  of  the  physical  body.  They  are 
m/ra-human,  a  kind  of  vegetation.  I  sometimes  awake  to  a 
half-consciousness  of  them  going  on  about  me,  as  a  man  may 
become  conscious  of  some  of  the  processes  of  digestion  in  a 
morbid  state,  and  so  have  the  dyspepsia,  as  it  is  called.  It  is 
as  if  a  thinker  submitted  himself  to  be  rasped  by  the  great 
gizzard  of  creation.  Politics  is,  as  it  were,  the  gizzard  of  society, 
full  of  grit  and  gravel,  and  the  two  political  parties  are  its  two 
opposite  halves,  —  sometimes  split  into  quarters,  it  may  be, 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  487 

which  grind  on  each  other.  Not  only  individuals,  but  states, 
have  thus  a  confirmed  dyspepsia,  which  expresses  itself,  you 
can  imagine  by  what  sort  of  eloquence.  Thus  our  life  is  not 
altogether  a  forgetting,^  but  also,  alas!  to  a  great  extent,  a 
remembering,  of  that  which  we  should  never  have  been  con- 
scious of,  certainly  not  in  our  waking  hours.  Why  should  we 
not  meet,  not  always  as  dyspeptics,  to  tell  our  bad  dreams,  but 
sometimes  as  ^wpeptics,  to  congratulate  each  other  on  the  ever- 
glorious  morning?  I  do  not  make  an  exorbitant  demand,  surely. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  ^ 

As  for  these  communities,  I  think  I  had  rather  keep  bache- 
lor's hall  in  hell  than  go  to  board  in  heaven.  Do  you  think  your 
virtue  will  be  boarded  with  you?  It  will  never  live  on  the  inter- 
est of  your  money,  depend  upon  it.  The  boarded  has  no  home. 
In  heaven  I  hope  to  bake  my  own  bread  and  clean  my  own 
linen.  The  tomb  is  the  only  boarding-house  in  which  a  hundred 
are  served  at  once.  In  the  catacomb  we  may  dwell  together 
and  prop  one  another  without  loss,   (i,  227.) 

It  is  a  certain  faeryland  where  we  live.  You  may  walk  out 
in  any  direction  over  the  earth's  surface,  lifting  your  horizon, 
and  everywhere  your  path,  climbing  the  convexity  of  the  globe, 
leads  you  between  heaven  and  earth,  not  away  from  the  light 
of  the  sun  and  stars  and  the  habitations  of  men.  I  wonder  that 
I  ever  get  five  miles  on  my  way,  the  walk  is  so  crowded  with 
events  and  phenomena,   (n,  228-29.) 

On  the  hillside  above  Clamshell  Ditch,  grows  that  handsome 
grass  of  Sept.  ist  (vide  September  4th),  evidently  Sorghum 

1  "Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting."  (Wordsworth/'Ode  on  Intima- 
tions of  Immortality.") 

2  The  Journal  was  first  published  >vnthout  abridgment  (save  the  slightest)  in 
the  Walden  Edition  of  Thoreau's  \\Titings,  1906.  Several  of  the  selections  here 
printed  are  passages  that  Thoreau  inserted  in  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merri- 
mack Rivers,  Walden,  and  Excursions.  "  From  all  points  of  the  compass,  from  the 
earth  beneath  and  the  heavens  above,  have  come  these  inspirations  and  been 
entered  duly  in  the  order  of  their  arrival  in  the  journal.  Thereafter,  when  the 
time  arrived,  they  were  winnowed  into  lectures,  and  again,  in  due  time,  from 
lectures  into  essays."  (1,413-)  "  My  Journal  should  be  the  record  of  my  love.  I 
would  write  in  it  only  of  the  things  I  love,  my  affection  for  any  aspect  of  the 
world,  what  I  love  to  think  of,"  {11,  loi.) 


488  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

nutans  (Andropogon  of  Bigelow),  chestnut  beard  grass,  Indian 
grass,  wood  grass.  It  is  much  larger  than  what  I  saw  before; 
it  is  abundantly  in  flower;  four  and  a  half  feet  high;  leaves, 
perhaps  arundinaceous,  eighteen  inches  long;  panicle,  nine 
inches  long.  It  is  a  very  handsome,  wild-looking  grass,  well 
enough  called  Indian  grass,  and  I  should  have  named  it  with 
the  other  andropogons,  August  26th.  With  its  narrow  one- 
sided panicle  of  bright  purple  and  yellow  (I  include  the  yellow 
anthers)  often  waving  [?],  raised  high  above  the  leaves,  it  looks 
like  a  narrow  banner.  It  is  of  more  vivid  colors  than  its  con- 
geners, and  might  well  have  caught  an  Indian's  eye.  These 
bright  banners  are  now  advanced  on  the  distant  hillsides,  not 
in  large  armies,  but  scattered  troops  or  single  file,  like  the  red 
men  themselves.  They  stand  thus  fair  and  bright  in  our  midst, 
as  it  were  representatives  of  the  race  which  they  are  named 
after,  but  for  the  most  part  unobserved.  It  stands  like  an 
Indian  chief  taking  a  last  look  at  his  beloved  hunting-grounds. 
The  expression  of  this  grass  haunted  me  for  a  week  after  I  first 
passed  and  noticed  it,  like  the  glance  of  an  eye.  (xi,  147.) 

I  must  live  above  all  in  the  present.  (11,  138.) 

Ah,  dear  nature,  the  mere  remembrance,  after  a  short  forget- 
f ulness,  of  the  pine  woods !  I  come  to  it  as  a  hungry  man  to  a 
crust  of  bread,   (in,  133.) 

A  momentous  silence  reigns  always  in  the  woods,  and  their 
meaning  seems  just  ripening  into  expression.  But  alas!  they 
make  no  haste.  The  rush  sparrow.  Nature's  minstrel  of  serene 
hours,  sings  of  an  immense  leisure  and  duration. 

When  I  hear  a  robin  sing  at  sunset,  I  cannot  help  contrasting 
the  equanimity  of  Nature  with  the  bustle  and  impatience  of 
man.  We  return  from  the  lyceum  and  caucus  with  such  stir 
and  excitement,  as  if  a  crisis  were  at  hand ;  but  no  natural  scene 
or  sound  sympathizes  with  us,  for  Nature  is  always  silent  and 
unpretending  as  at  the  break  of  day.  She  but  rubs  her  eyelids, 
(i,  252.) 

These  regular  phenomena  of  the  seasons  get  at  last  to  be  — 
they  were  at  first,  of  course  —  simply  and  plainly  phenomena 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  489 

or  phases  of  my  life.  The  seasons  and  all  their  changes  are  in 
me.  I  see  not  a  dead  eel  or  floating  snake,  or  a  gull,  but  it 
rounds  my  life  and  is  like  a  line  or  accent  in  its  poem.  Almost 
I  believe  the  Concord  would  not  rise  and  overflow  its  banks 
again,  were  I  not  here.  After  a  while  I  learn  what  my  moods 
and  seasons  are.  I  would  have  nothing  subtracted.  I  can 
imagine  nothing  added.  My  moods  are  thus  periodical,  not 
two  days  in  my  year  alike.  The  perfect  correspondence  of 
Nature  to  man,  so  that  he  is  at  home  in  her!  (x,  127.) 

We  soon  get  through  with  Nature.  She  excites  an  expecta- 
tion which  she  cannot  satisfy.  The  merest  child  which  has 
rambled  into  a  copsewood  dreams  of  a  wilderness  so  wild  and 
strange  and  inexhaustible  as  Nature  can  never  show  him.  The 
red-bird  which  I  saw  on  my  companion's  string  on  election 
days  I  thought  but  the  outmost  sentinel  of  the  wild,  immortal 
camp,  —  of  the  wild  and  dazzling  infantry  of  the  wilderness,  — 
that  the  deeper  woods  abounded  with  redder  birds  still;  but, 
now  that  I  have  threaded  all  our  woods  and  waded  the  swamps, 
I  have  never  yet  met  wdth  his  compeer,  still  less  his  wilder 
kindred.  The  red-bird  which  is  the  last  of  Nature  is  but  the 
first  of  God.  The  White  Mountains,  likewise,  were  smooth 
mole-hills  to  my  expectation.  We  condescend  to  climb  the  crags 
of  earth.  It  is  our  weary  legs  alone  that  praise  them.  That 
forest  on  whose  skirts  the  red-bird  flits  is  not  of  earth.  I  ex- 
pected a  fauna  more  infinite  and  various,  birds  of  more  dazzling 
colors  and  more  celestial  song.  How  many  springs  shall  I  con- 
tinue to  see  the  common  sucker  {Catostomus  Bostoniensis)  float- 
ing dead  on  our  river!  Will  not  Nature  select  her  types  from 
a  new  fount?  The  vignette  of  the  year.  This  earth  which  is 
spread  out  like  a  map  around  me  is  but  the  lining  of  my  inmost 
soul  exposed.  In  me  is  the  sucker  that  I  see.  No  wholly  extra- 
neous object  can  compel  me  to  recognize  it.  I  am  guilty  of  suck- 
ers. I  go  about  to  look  at  flowers  and  Hsten  to  the  birds.  There 
was  a  time  when  the  beauty  and  the  music  were  all  within, 
and  I  sat  and  Hstened  to  my  thoughts,  and  there  was  a  song  in 
them.  I  sat  for  hours  on  rocks  and  wrestled  with  the  melody 
which  possessed  me.  I  sat  and  listened  by  the  hour  to  a  posi- 
tive though  faint  and  distant  music,  not  sung  by  any  bird,  nor 
vibrating  any  earthly  harp.    When  you  walked  with  a  joy 


490  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

which  knew  not  its  own  origin.  When  you  were  an  organ  of 
which  the  world  was  but  one  poor  broken  pipe.  I  lay  long  on 
the  rocks,  foundered  like  a  harp  on  the  seashore,  that  knows 
not  how  it  is  dealt  with.  You  sat  on  the  earth  as  on  a  raft,  lis- 
tening to  music  that  was  not  of  the  earth,  but  which  ruled  and 
arranged  it.  Man  should  he  the  harp  articulate.  When  your 
cords  were  tense,   (vi,  293-94.) 

You  must  walk  so  gently  as  to  hear  the  finest  sounds,  the 
faculties  being  in  repose.  Your  mind  must  not  perspire.  True, 
out  of  doors  my  thought  is  commonly  drowned,  as  it  were,  and 
shrimken,  pressed  down  by  stupendous  piles  of  Hght  ethereal 
influence,  for  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  is  still  fifteen 
pounds  to  a  square  inch.  I  can  do  little  more  than  preserve  the 
equiHbrium  and  resist  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere.  I  can 
only  nod  like  the  rye-heads  in  the  breeze.  I  expand  more  surely 
in  my  chamber,  as  far  as  expression  goes,  as  if  that  pressure 
were  taken  off;  but  here  out-doors  is  the  place  to  store  up 
influences.   (11,  338.) 

Nothing  is  so  attractive  and  unceasingly  curious  as  character. 
There  is  no  plant  that  needs  such  tender  treatment,  there  is 
none  that  will  endure  so  rough.  It  is  the  violet  and  the  oak. 
It  is  the  thing  we  mean,  let  us  say  what  we  will.  We  mean  our 
own  character,  or  we  mean  yours.  It  is  divine  and  related  to 
the  heavens,  as  the  earth  is  by  the  flashes  of  the  Aurora.  It 
has  no  acquaintance  nor  companion.  It  goes  silent  and  unob- 
served longer  than  any  planet  in  space,  but  when  at  length  it 
does  show  itself,  it  seems  like  the  flowering  of  all  the  world, 
and  its  before  unseen  orbit  is  Ut  up  like  the  trail  of  a  meteor. 
I  hear  no  good  news  ever  but  some  trait  of  a  noble  character. 
It  reproaches  me  plaintively.  I  am  mean  in  contrast,  but  again 
am  thrilled  and  elevated  that  I  can  see  my  own  meanness,  and 
again  still,  that  my  own  aspiration  is  realized  in  that  other. 
You  reach  me,  my  friend,  not  by  your  kind  or  wise  words  to 
me  here  or  there;  but  as  you  retreat,  perhaps  after  years  of  vain 
famiHarity,  some  gesture  or  unconscious  action  in  the  distance 
speaks  to  me  with  more  emphasis  than  all  those  years.  I  am 
not  concerned  to  know  what  eighth  planet  is  wandering  in  space 
up  there,  or  when  Venus  or  Orion  rises,  but  if,  in  any  cot  to 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  491 

east  or  west  and  set  behind  the  woods,  there  is  any  planetary 
character  illuminating  the  earth,   (i,  290-91.) 

There  was  a  remarkable  sunset,  I  think  the  25th  of  October. 
The  sunset  sky  reached  quite  from  west  to  east,  and  it  was  the 
most  varied  in  its  f(5rms  and  colors  of  any  that  I  remember  to 
have  seen.  At  one  time  the  clouds  were  most  softly  and  deli- 
cately rippled,  like  the  ripple-marks  on  sand.  But  it  was  hard 
for  me  to  see  its  beauty  then,  when  my  mind  was  filled  with 
Captain  Brown.  So  great  a  wrong  as  his  fate  implied  overshad- 
owed all  beauty  in  the  world. ^  (xii,  443.) 

By  spells  seriousness  will  be  forced  to  cut  capers,  and  .drink 
a  deep  and  refreshing  draught  of  silliness;  to  turn  this  sedate 
day  of  Lucifer's  and  Apollo's,  into  an  all  fools'  day  for  Harle- 
quin and  CornwalHs.  The  sun  does  not  grudge  his  rays  to 
either,  but  they  are  alike  patronized  by  the  gods.  Like  over- 
tasked schoolboys,  all  my  members  and  nerves  and  sinews 
petition  Thought  for  a  recess,  and  my  very  thigh-bones  itch  to 
slip  away  from  under  me,  and  run  and  join  the  melee.  I  exult 
in  stark  inanity,  leering  on  nature  and  the  soul.  We  think  the 
gods  reveal  themselves  only  to  sedate  and  musing. gentlemen. 
But  not  so ;  the  buffoon  in  the  midst  of  his  antics  catches  unob- 
serv^ed  glimpses,  which  he  treasures  for  the  lonely  hour.  When 
I  have  been  playing  tom-fool,  I  have  been  driven  to  exchange 
the  old  for  a  more  liberal  and  catholic  philosophy,   (i,  175-76.) 

When  I  consider  how,  after  sunset,  the  stars  come  out  gradu- 
ally in  troops  from  behind  the  hills  and  woods,  I  confess  that  I 
could  not  have  contrived  a  more  curious  and  inspiring  night, 
(i,  170.) 

When  the  wind  blows,  the  fine  snow  comes  filtering  down 
through  all  the  aisles  of  the  wood  in  a  golden  cloud,   (i,  184.) 

After  the  evening  train  has  gone  by  and  left  the  world  to 

silence  and  to  me,  the  whip-poor-will  chants  her  vespers  for 

half  an  hour.  And  when  all  is  still  at  night,  the  owls  take  up 

the  strain,  like  mourning  women  their  ancient  ululu.  Their  most 

^  Cf.  "A  Plea  for  Captain  John  Brown,"  in  Miscellanies. 


492  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

dismal  scream  is  truly  Ben-Jonsonian.  Wise  midnight  hags! 
It  is  no  honest  and  blunt  tu-whit  tu-who  of  the  poets,  but, 
without  jesting,  a  most  solemn  graveyard  ditty,  —  but  the 
mutual  consolations  of  suicide  lovers  remembering  the  pangs 
and  the  delights  of  supernal  love  in  the  infernal  groves.  And 
yet  I  love  to  hear  their  wailing,  their  doleful  responses,  trilled 
along  the  woodside,  reminding  me  sometimes  of  music  and 
singing  birds,  as  if  it  were  the  dark  and  tearful  side  of  music, 
the  regrets  and  sighs,  that  would  fain  be  simg.  The  spirits,  the 
low  spirits  and  melancholy  forebodings,  of  fallen  spirits  who 
once  in  human  shape  night- walked  the  earth  and  did  the  deeds 
of  darkness,  now  expiating  with  their  wailing  hymns,  threnodiai, 
their  sins  in  the  very  scenery  of  their  transgressions.  They  give 
me  a  new  sense  of  the  vastness  and  mystery  of  that  nature 
which  is  the  common  dwelling  of  us  both.  "Oh-o-o-o-o  that  I 
never  had  been  bor-or-or-or-rn ! "  sighs  one  on  this  side  of  the 
pond,  and  circles  in  the  restlessness  of  despair  to  some  new 
perch  in  the  gray  oaks.  Then,  ''That  I  never  had  been  bor-or- 
or-or-orn!"  echoes  one  on  the  further  side,  with  a  tremulous 
sincerity,  and  "  Bor-or-or-or-om  "  comes  faintly  from  far  in  the 
Lincoln  woods. 

And  then  the  frogs,  bullfrogs;  they  are  the  more  sturdy 
spirits  of  ancient  wine-bibbers  and  wassailers,  still  unrepentant, 
trying  to  sing  a  catch  in  their  Stygian  lakes.  They  would  fain 
keep  up  the  hilarious  good  fellowship  and  all  the  rules  of  their 
old  round  tables,  but  they  have  waxed  hoarse  and  solemnly 
grave  and  serious  their  voices,  mocking  at  mirth,  and  their 
wine  has  lost  its  flavor  and  is  only  liquor  to  distend  their 
paimches,  and  never  comes  sweet  intoxication  to  drown  the 
memory  of  the  past,  but  mere  saturation  and  water-logged 
dullness  and  distension.  Still  the  most  aldermanic,  with  his 
chin  upon  a  pad,  which  answers  for  a  napkin  to  his  drooling 
chops,  under  the  eastern  shore  quaffs  a  deep  draught  of  the 
once  scorned  water,  and  passes  round  the  cup  with  the  ejacu- 
lation tr-r-r-r-r-oonk,  tr-r-r-r-r-oonk,  tr-r-r-r-oonk!  and  straight- 
way comes  over  the  water  from  some  distant  cove  the  selfsame 
password,  where  the  next  in  seniority  and  girth  has  gulped 
down  to  his  mark;  and  when  the  strain  has  made  the  circuit 
of  the  shores,  then  ejaculates  the  master  of  ceremonies  with 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  493 

satisfaction  tr-r-r-r-oonkt  and  each  in  turn  repeats  the  sound, 
down  to  the  least  distended,  leakiest,  flabbiest  paunched,  that 
there  be  no  mistake;  and  the  bowl  goes  round  again,  until  the 
sun  dispels  the  morning  mist,  and  only  the  patriarch  is  not 
under  the  pond,  but  vainly  bellowing  troonk  from  time  to  time, 
pausing  for  a  reply,   (i,  378-80.) 

July  12.  8  P.M.  —  Now  at  least  the  moon  is  full,  and  I  walk 
alone,  which  is  best  by  night,  if  not  by  day  always.  Your  com- 
panion must  sympathize  with  the  present  mood.  The  conver- 
sation must  be  located  where  the  walkers  are,  and  vary  exactly 
with  the  scene  and  events  and  the  contour  of  the  ground.  Fare- 
well to  those  who  will  talk  of  nature  imnaturally,  whose  pres- 
ence is  an  interruption.  I  know  but  one  with  whom  I  can  walk. 
I  might  as  well  be  sitting  in  a  bar-room  with  them  as  walk  and 
talk  with  most.  We  are  never  side  by  side  in  our  thoughts,  and 
we  cannot  hear  each  other's  silence.  Indeed,  we  cannot  be 
silent.  We  are  forever  breaking  silence,  that  is  all,  and  mending 
nothing.  How  can  they  keep  together  who  are  going  different 
ways! 

I  start  a  sparrow  from  her  three  eggs  in  the  grass,  where  she 
had  settled  for  the  night.  The  earliest  com  is  beginning  to 
show  its  tassels  now,  and  I  scent  it  as  I  walk,  —  its  peculiar 
dry  scent.  (This  afternoon  I  gathered  ripe  blackberries,  and 
felt  as  if  the  autumn  had  commenced.)  Now  perchance  many 
sounds  and  sights  only  remind  me  that  they  once  said  some- 
thing to  me,  and  are  so  by  association  interesting.  I  go  forth 
to  be  reminded  of  a  previous  state  of  existence,  if  perchance 
any  memento  of  it  is  to  be  met  with  hereabouts.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  Nature  preserves  her  integrity.  Nature  is  in  as 
rude  health  as  when  Homer  sang.  We  may  at  last  by  our  s)ma- 
pathies  be  well.  I  see  a  skunk  on  Bear  Garden  Hill  stealing 
noiselessly  away  from  me,  while  the  moon  shines  over  the  pitch 
pines,  which  send  long  shadows  down  the  hill.  Now,  looking 
back,  I  see  it  shining  on  the  south  side  of  farmhouses  and  barns 
with  a  weird  light,  for  I  pass  here  half  an  hour  later  than  last 
night.  I  smell  the  huckleberry  bushes.  I  hear  a  human  voice, 
—  some  laborer  singing  after  his  day's  toil,  —  which  I  do  not 
often  hear.  Loud  it  must  be,  for  it  is  far  away.  Methinks  I 
should  know  it  for  a  white  man's  voice.  Some  strains  have  the 


494  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

melody  of  an  instrument.  Now  I  hear  the  sound  of  a  bugle  in 
the  "Comer,"  reminding  me  of  poetic  wars;  a  few  flourishes* 
and  the  bugler  has  gone  to  rest.  At  the  foot  of  the  Cliff  hill  I 
hear  the  sound  of  the  clock  striking  nine,  as  distinctly  as  within 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  usually,  though  there  is  no  wind.  The  moon- 
light is  more  perfect  than  last  night;  hardly  a  cloud  in  the  sky, 
—  only  a  few  fleecy  ones.  There  is  more  serenity  and  more 
light.  I  hear  that  sort  of  throttled  or  chuckling  note  as  of  a 
bird  flying  high,  now  from  this  side,  then  from  that.  Methinks 
when  I  turn  my  head  I  see  Wachusett  from  the  side  of  the  hill. 
I  smell  the  butter-and-eggs  as  I  walk.  I  am  startled  by  the 
rapid  transit  of  some  wild  animal  across  my  path,  a  rabbit  or  a 
fox,  —  or  you  hardly  know  if  it  be  not  a  bird.  Looking  down 
from  the  cliffs,  the  leaves  of  the  tree-tops  shine  more  than  ever 
by  day.  Here  and  there  a  lightning-bug  shows  his  greenish  light 
over  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

As  I  return  through  the  orchard,  a  foolish  robin  bursts  away 
from  his  perch  unnaturally,  with  the  habits  of  man.  The  air  is 
remarkably  still  and  unobjectionable  on  the  hilltop,  and  the 
whole  world  below  is  covered  as  with  a  gossamer  blanket  of 
moonlight.  It  is  just  about  as  yellow  as  a  blanket.  It  is  a  great 
dimly  burnished  shield  with  darker  blotches  on  its  surface.  You 
have  lost  some  light,  it  is  true,  but  you  have  got  this  simple 
and  magnificent  stillness,  brooding  like  genius,   (ii,  302-04.) 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

LETTERS  ^ 

To  Master  Robert  T.  5.  Lowell 

Nov.  2,  1828.' 

My  dear  Brother,  —  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  melan- 
choly news.  I  have  got  the  ague  together  with  a  gumbile.  I 
presume  you  know  that  September  has  got  a  lame  leg,  but  he 
grows  better  every  day  and  now  is  very  well  but  still  limps  a 
little.  We  have  a  new  scholar  from  round  hill,  his  name  is 
Hooper  and  we  expect  another  named  Penn  who  I  believe  also 
comes  from  there.  The  boys  are  all  very  well  except  Nemaise, 
who  has  got  another  piece  of  glass  in  his  leg  and  is  waiting  for 
the  doctor  to  take  it  out,  and  Samuel  Storrow  is  also  sick.  I  am 
going  to  have  a  new  suit  of  blue  broadcloth  clothes  to  wear 
every  day  and  to  play  in.  Mother  tells  me  that  I  may  have  any 
sort  of  buttons  I  choose.  I  have  not  done  anything  to  the  hut 
but  if  you  wish  I  will.  I  am  now  very  happy;  but  I  should  be 
more  so  if  you  were  here.  I  hope  you  will  answer  my  letter  if 
you  do  not  I  shall  write  you  no  more  letters,  when  you  write 
my  letters  you  must  direct  them  all  to  me  and  not  write  half 
to  mother  as  generally  do.  Mother  has  given  me  the  three 
volumes  of  tales  of  a  grandfather. 

farewell 

Yours  truly 

James  R.  Lowell. 

You  must  excuse  me  for  making  so  many  mistakes.  You 
must  keep  what  I  have  told  you  about  my  new  clothes  a  secret 
if  you  dont  I  shall  not  divulge  any  more  secrets  to  yoji.  I  have 
got  quite  a  library.  The  Master  has  not  taken  his  rattan  out 
since  the  vacation.  Your  little  kitten  is  as  well  and  as  playful 
as  ever  and  I  hope  you  are  to  for  I  am  sure  I  love  you  as  well  as 

1  From  Letters  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  edited  by  Charles  Eliot  Norton;  copy- 
right, 1893,  by  Harper  and  Brothers.  All  of  the  letters  here  printed  are  com- 
plete, or,  rather,  as  nearly  complete  as  in  the  Norton  text. 

2  Lowell  was  bom  in  1819. 


496  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

ever.  Why  is  grass  like  a  mouse  you  cant  guess  that  he  he  he 
ho  ho  ho  ha  ha  ha  hum  hum  hum. 

To  G.  B.  Loring 

Cambridge,  I  don't  know  the  date. 
[April  I o,  1837.] 

Dear  George,  — ...  I  have  written  about  an  hundred 
lines  of  my  poem{?),  and  I  suspect  it  is  going  to  be  a  pretty 
good  one.  At  least,  some  parts  of  it  will  take.  'T  is  a  pretty 
good  subject,  but  I  find  it  enlarging  as  I  progress.  ''Crescit 
eundo,"^  like  the  balls  of  snow  we  used  to  roll  when  we  were 
boys.  By  the  way,  that's  not  a  bad  simile.  I  might  alter  it  into 
an  avalanche  and  bring  it  into  the  poem,  in  which  I  intend  to 
say  how  much  beyond  me  the  subject  is.  .  .  . 

I  am  as  busy  as  a  bee  —  almost.  I  study  and  read  and  write 
all  the  time. 

I  have  laid  my  hands  on  a  very  pretty  edition  of  Cowper, 
which  I  intend  to  keep.  In  two  volumes. 

I  have  also  *' pinned"  some  letters  relating  to  myself  in  my 
early  childhood,  by  which  it  seems  I  was  a  miracle  of  a  boy  for 
sweetness  of  temper.  'Xredite  posteri"!^  I  believe  I  was^ 
although  perhaps  you  would  not  think  it  now. 

George,  you  are  in  a  very  dangerous  situation.  Surrounded 

as  you  are  by  temptations,  with  Miss  K your  next-door 

neighbor,  and  the  eyes  of  Miss  H blazing  across  but  a  small 

meadow,  you  cannot  be  too  careful  of  yourself.  You  may  trust 
my  advice,  for,  in  common  with  Petrarch,  Dante,  Tasso,  and 
Byron,  I  was  desperately  in  love  before  I  was  ten  years  old. 
What  pangs  I  have  suffered  my  own  heart,  perhaps,  only 
knows.  .  .  , 

Your  most  affectionate  friend, 

Lowell. 

To  C.  F.  Briggs 

Elmwood,  Nov.  25,  1853.' 

My  dear  oiLD  Friend,  —  Your  letter  came  while  I  was  sadly 
sealing  up  and  filing  away  old  letters,  for  I  feel  now  for  the  first 

*  "It  grows  by  going."  2  "Lg^  posterity  believe  it." 

•  Maria  White  Lowell  died  on  October  27, 


LETTERS  497 

time  old,  and  as  if  I  had  a  past  —  something,  I  mean,  quite 
alien  to  my  present  life,  and  from  which  I  am  now  exiled.  How 
beautiful  that  past  was  and  how  I  cannot  see  it  clearly  yet  for 
my  tears  I  need  not  tell  you.  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  that 
the  sweet  influences  of  thirteen  years  spent  with  one  like  her 
may  be  seen  and  felt  in  my  daily  life  henceforth.  At  present  I 
only  feel  that  there  is  a  chamber  whose  name  is  Peace,  and 
which  opens  towards  the  simrising,  and  that  I  am  not  in  it.  I 
keep  repeating  to  myself  "by  and  by,'^  "by  and  by,"  till  that 
trivial  phrase  has  acquired  an  intense  meaning.  I  know  very 
well  that  this  sunset-glow,  even  of  a  life  like  hers,  will  fade  by 
degrees;  that  the  brisk,  busy  day  will  return  with  its  bills  and 
notes  and  beef  and  beer,  intrusive,  distracting  —  but  in  the 
meantime  I  pray.  I  do  abhor  sentimentality  from  the  bottom 
of  my  soul,  and  cannot  wear  my  grief  upon  my  sleeves,  but  yet 
I  look  forward  with  agony  to  the  time  when  she  may  become  a 
memory  instead  of  a  constant  presence.  She  promised  to  be 
with  me  if  that  were  possible,  but  it  demands  all  the  energy  of 
the  soul  to  believe  without  sight,  and  all  the  unmetaphysical 
simplicity  of  faith  to  distinguish  between  fact  and  fancy.  I 
know  that  the  little  transparent  film  which  covers  the  pupil  of 
my  eye  is  the  only  wall  between  her  world  and  mine,  but  that 
hair-breadth  is  as  effectual  as  the  space  between  us  and  the  sun: 
I  cannot  see  her,  I  cannot  feel  when  I  come  home  that  she 
comes  to  the  door  to  welcome  me  as  she  always  did.  I  can  only 
hope  that  when  I  go  through  the  last  door  that  opens  for  all  of 
us  I  may  hear  her  coming  step  upon  the  other  side.  That  her 
death  was  so  beautiful  and  calm  and  full  of  faith  as  it  was  gives 
me  no  consolation,  for  it  was  only  that  rare  texture  of  her  life 
continuing  to  the  very  end,  and  makes  me  feel  all  the  more 
what  I  had  and  what  I  have  not. 

I  began  this  upon  a  great  sheet  because  it  reminded  me  of 
the  dear  old  times  that  are  dead  and  buried  now.  But  I  cannot 
write  much  more.  I  keep  myself  employed  most  of  the  time  — 
in  something  mechanical  as  much  as  possible  —  and  in  walking. 

You  say  something  of  coming  to  Boston.  I  wish  I  could  see 
you.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort.  .  .  . 

I  am  glad  for  your  friendly  sake  that  my  article  was  a  pop- 
ular one,  but  the  news  of  it  only  pained  me.  It  came  too  late 
to  please  the  only  human  being  to  please  whom  I  greatly  cared 


498  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

and  whose  satisfaction  was  to  me  prosperity  and  fame.  But 
her  poem  —  how  beautiful  it  was,  and  how  fitting  for  the 
last!  .  .  . 

So  God  bless  you,  and  think  of  me  always  as  your  more 
loving  friend, 

J.  R.  L. 

To  Miss  Loring 

No.  4,  Kleine  Schiessgasse, 
Dresden,  Oct.  3,  1855. 

...  I  am  beim  Herrn  Hofrath  Dr.  Reichenbach,  who  is  one 
of  the  kindest  of  men,  and  Madame  is  a  ''first-rate  fullah" 
too,  as  my  nephew  Willie  would  say.  I  have  a  large  room  am 
Parterre^  with  a  glass  door  opening  upon  a  pretty  garden.  My 
walls  are  hung  with  very  nice  pictures  painted  by  the  gnddige 
Frau  herself;  and  they  were  so  thoughtful  as  to  send  down 
before  I  came  a  large  case  with  American  birds  very  well  stuffed 
and  mounted,  so  that  I  might  have  some  friends.  Some  of  them 
are  very  familiar,  and  I  look  at  the  oriole  sometimes  till  I  hear 
him  whistling  over  the  buttercups  in  the  dear  old  times  at 
Elmwood.  Ah,  how  deep  out  of  the  past  his  song  comes!  But 
hin  ist  hin,  verloren  ist  iierloren!  ^  Then  I  have  one  of  those  sol- 
emn ceremonials,  a  German  bed  —  with  a  feather-bed  under 
.which  I  engrave  myself  at  night  and  dream  that  I  am  awaiting 
the  last  trump.  Then  I  have  the  prettiest  writing-table,  bought 
expris  pour  moP  by  Madame,  well  ich  ein  Dichter  bin^  —  and 
at  which  I  am  now  sitting  —  with  drawers  for  everything  and 
nothing.  I  rack  my  brains  for  what  to  put  in  'em.  I  am  fast 
turning  into  a  "regular"  German,  according  to  the  definition 
of  that  Italian  innkeeper  at  Amalfi,  who  told  me,  speaking  of 
a  man  that  was  drowned,  ''bisognerebbe  che  fosse  un  Tedesco 
perche  sempre  stava  a  casa,  e  non  faceva  niente  che  fumare  e 
studiare."^  I  get  up  um  sieben  TJhr^  and  das  Madchen  brings 
me  my  coffee  and  Butterhrod  at  8.  Then  I  begin  to  study.  I  am 
reading  for  my  own  amusement  (du  Heber  Gott!)  the  aesthet- 
ische  Forschungen  von  Adolf  Zeising,  pp.  568,  large  octavo! 

^  The  past  is  past,  the  lost  is  lost. 
'    2  Expressly  for  me.  ^  Because  I  am  a  poet. 

*  "He  must  have  been  a  German  because  he  always  stayed  at  home  and  did 
nothing  but  smoke  and  study." 

^  At  seven  o'clock. 


LETTERS 


499 


Then  I  overset  something  aus  ^  German  into  English.  Then 
comes  dinner  at  i  o'clock,  with  ungehener^  German  dishes. 
Nachmittag  ^  I  study  Spanish  with  a  nice  yoimg  Spaniard  who 
is  in  the  house,  to  whom  I  teach  EngHsh  in  return.  Um  seeks 
Uhr  ich  gehe  spazieren,^  and  at  7  come  home,  and  Dr.  R.  dic- 
tates and  I  write.  Aber  potztausend  Donnerwetter !  ^  what  a 
language  it  is  to  be  sure !  with  nominatives  sending  out  as  many 
roots  as  that  witch-grass  which  is  the  pest  of  all  child-gardens, 
and  sentences  in  which  one  sets  sail  like  an  admiral  with  sealed 
orders,  not  kno\ving  where  the  devil  he  is  going  to  till  he  is  in 
mid-ocean!  Then,  after  tea,  we  sit  and  talk  German  —  or 
what  some  of  us  take  to  be  such  —  and  which  I  speak  already 
like  a  native  —  of  some  other  country.  But  Madame  R.  is  very 
kind  and  takes  great  pains  to  set  me  right.  The  confounded 
genders !  If  I  die  I  will  have  engraved  on  my  tombstone  that  I 
died  of  der,  die,  das,  not  because  I  caught  'em,  but  because  I 
could  n't.  Dr.  R.  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished  Naturwissen- 
schaftsgelehrten(!I)^  in  Europe — a  charming,  friendly,  simple- 
hearted  man.  I  attend  his  Vorlesungenunde/7£;a5verstehe.  .  .  J 

To  C.  E.  Norton 

Cambrtoge,  Sept.  16,  1856. 

...  I  have  just  come  in  from  a  walk  up  the  Httle  lane  that 
runs  down  behind  the  hill  to  Fresh  Pond.  It  is  one  of  the  few 
spots  left  something  like  what  it  was  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I 
can  pick  hazelnuts  from  the  same  bushes  which  brought  me 
and  the  chipmunks  together  thirty  years  ago.  I  really  think 
it  is  bad  for  our  moral  nature  here  in  America  that  so  many  of 
the  links  that  bind  us  to  our  past  are  severed  in  one  way  or 
another,  and  am  grateful  for  anything  that  renews  in  me  that 
capacity  for  mere  deHght  which  made  my  childhood  the  richest 
part  of  my  life.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  never  seen  nature 
again  since  those  old  days  when  the  balancing  of  a  yellow  butter- 
fly over  a  thistlebroom  was  spiritual  food  and  lodging  for  a 
whole  forenoon.   This  morning  I  have  had  it  all  over  again. 

^  Translate  something  from  ^  Enormous. 

'  In  the  afternoons.  *  At  six  o'clock  I  go  for  a  walk. 

^  But  the  deuce!  2k)unds!!  '  Natural  scientists. 

'  I  attend  his  lectures  and  understand  something. 


500  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

There  were  the  same  high-heaped  shagbark-trees  —  the  same 
rosebushes  with  their  autumn  corals  on  —  the  same  curving 
golden-rods  and  wide-eyed  asters  —  the  same  heavy-headed 
goatsbeard  —  the  same  frank  blue  sky  —  the  same  cloud- 
shadows  I  used  to  race  with  —  the  same  purple  on  the  western 
hills  —  and,  as  I  walked  along,  the  great-grandchildren  of  the 
same  metallic  devil' s-darning-needles  slid  sideways  from  the 
path  and  were  back  again  as  soon  as  I  had  passed.  Nature  has 
not  budged  an  inch  in  all  these  years,  and  meanwhile  over  how 
many  thistles  have  I  hovered  and  thought  I  was  —  no  matter 
what;  it  is  splendid,  as  girls  say,  to  dream  backward  so.  One 
feels  as  if  he  were  a  poet,  and  one's  own  Odyssey  sings  itself  in 
one's  blood  as  he  walks.  I  do  not  know  why  I  write  this  to  you 
so  far  away,  except  that  as  this  world  goes  it  is  something  to  be 
able  to  say,  *'I  have  been  happy  for  two  hours."  I  wanted  to 
tell  you,  too,  what  glorious  fall  weather  we  are  having,  clear 
and  champagney,  the  northwest  wind  crisping  Fresh  Pond  to 
steel-blue,  and  curling  the  wet  lily-pads  over  till  they  bloom  in 
a  sudden  flash  of  golden  sunshine.  How  I  do  love  the  earth! 
I  feel  it  thrill  under  my  feet.  I  feel  somehow  as  if  it  were  con- 
scious of  my  love,  as  if  something  passed  into  my  dancing  blood 
from  it,  and  I  get  rid  of  that  dreadful  duty-feeling  —  "  what 
right  have  I  to  be?"  —  and  not  a  golden-rod  of  them  all  soaks 
in  the  sunshine  or  feels  the  blue  currents  of  the  air  eddy  about 
him  more  thoughtlessly  than  I. 

I  wish  I  could  reach  you  a  cup  of  this  wine  over  those  briny 
leagues.  I  drink  your  health  in  it,  and  then  the  glass  shatters 
as  usual.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  You  ask  about  me.  I  have  not  begun  to  lecture  yet,  but 
am  to  deliver  my  old  Lowell  Institute  Course  first  and  then 
some  on  German  Literature  and  Dante.  .  .  . 

To  C.  E.  Norton 

Cambrtoge,  2d  day  of  Holy  Week, 
May,  1859. 

...  I  miss  you  like  thunder  —  ga  va  sans  dire^  —  especially 
in  this  George-Herbert' s-Sund ay  kind  of  weather,  which  is  cool 
and  calm  and  bright  as  can  be  thought.  I  fancy  you  listening 

*  That  goes  without  saying. 


LETTERS  501 

to  the  bobolinks  among  the  lush  grass  on  the  lawn.  I  heard 
them  yesterday  on  my  way  to  the  printing-office  for  the  first 
time  this  spring.  That  liquid  tinkle  of  theirs  is  the  true  foun- 
tain of  youth  if  one  can  only  drink  it  with  the  right  ears,  and  I 
always  date  the  New  Year  from  the  day  of  my  first  draught. 
Messer  Roberto  di  Lincoln,  with  his  summer  alb  over  his  shoul- 
ders, is  the  true  chorister  for  the  bridals  of  earth  and  sky.  There 
is  no  bird  that  seems  to  me  so  thoroughly  happy  as  he,  so  void 
of  all  arriere  pensee  ^  about  getting  a  Hvelihood.  The  robin  sings 
matins  and  vespers  somewhat  conscientiously,  it  seems  to  me 
—  makes  a  business  of  it  and  pipes  as  it  were  by  the  yard  — 
but  Bob  squanders  song  like  a  poet,  has  no  rain-song  (as  the 
robin  has,  who  prophesies  the  coming  wet  that  will  tempt  the 
worms  out  —  with  an  eye  to  grub),  and  seems  to  have  no  other 
tune  than,  mihi  est  propositum  in  tabernd  mori,^  with  a  long 
unpaid  score  chalked  up  against  him  behind  the  door.  He  never 
forebodes  or  remembers  anything,  won't  sing  in  wet  weather, 
but  takes  a  thoughtless  delight  in  present  sunshine.  I  am  sure 
he  leaves  debts  behind  him  when  he  comes  up  from  Carolina 
in  May.  Well,  you  see  I  was  happy  yesterday  on  my  way  to 
Riverside.  I  indulged  in  my  favorite  pastime  of  sitting  on  a 
fence  in  the  sunshine  and  basking.  The  landscape  was  perfect. 
.  .  .  Sweet  Auburn  pink  with  new-leaved  oaks,  Corey's  Hill 
green  in  the  hay-fields  and  brown  with  squares  of  freshly  turned 
furrows  (versus,  the  farmer's  poem),  the  orchards  rosy  with 
apple-blooms,  the  flowering  grasses  just  darkening  the  mead- 
ows to  set  off  the  gold  of  the  buttercups,  here  and  there  pale 
splashes  of  Houstonia  dropt  from  the  Galaxy,  and  the  river  all 
blue  and  gold.  This  is  Cambridge,  sir!  What  is  Newport  to 
this?  But  I  am  bobolinking  instead  of  attending  to  busi- 
ness. .  .  . 

To  Thomas  Hughes^ 

Elmwood,  Oct.  18,  1870. 

My  dear  old  Friend,  —  Parting  with  you  was  like  saying 
good-by  to  sunshine.  As  I  took  my  solitary  whiff  o'  baccy,  after 
I  got  home,  my  study  looked  bare,  and  my  old  cronies  on  the 

*  Thought  held  back;  afterthought. 

'  "It  is  my  plan  to  die  in  a  tavem."   (Medieval  drinking-song.) 

'  Author  of  Tom  Brown's  School-Days  and  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford. 


502  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

shelves  could  not  make  up  to  me  for  my  new  loss.  I  sat  with 
my  book  on  my  knee  and  mused  with  a  queer  feeling  about  my 
eyelids  now  and  then.  And  yet  you  have  left  so  much  behind 
that  is  precious  to  me,  that  by  and  by  I  know  that  my  room 
will  have  a  virtue  in  it  never  there  before,  because  of  your  pres- 
ence. And  now  it  seems  so  short  —  a  hail  at  sea  with  a  God- 
speed and  no  more.  But  you  will  come  back,  I  am  sure.  We 
all  send  love  and  regret. 

The  day  after  you  left  us  Rose  discovered  your  thin  coat, 
which  she  called  a  '*  duster."  I  had  half  a  mind  to  confiscate 
it,  it  was  such  a  good  one;  but  on  second  thoughts  concluded 
that  that  was,  on  the  whole,  as  good  a  reason  for  sending  it 
back  as  for  keeping  it. 

Letters  continue  to  pour  in,  and  I  enclose  them  with  the  coat 
to  No.  9  Lexington  Avenue.  There  came  also  a  telegram  from 
Montreal,  which  I  felt  justified  in  opening.  From  what  you 
had  told  me,  I  had  no  doubt  that  you  had  already  answered  in 
a  letter.  It  only  said  that  they  should  expect  you  on  Tuesday. 

As  you  will  no  doubt  see  Bryce  and  Dicey  in  London,  pray 
tell  them  how  sorry  I  was  not  to  see  more  of  them.  They  left 
many  friends  in  Cambridge.  If  all  Englishmen  could  only 
take  America  so  ''naturally"  as  you  did!  I  think,  if  it  could 
be  so,  there  would  never  be  any  risk  of  war.  That  reminds  me 
that  I  am  sure  your  address  has  done  great  good.  It  has  set 
people  thinking,  and  that  is  all  we  need.  I  enclose  a  little  poem 
from  to-day's  Advertiser  which  pleased  me.  I  do  not  know  who 
"H.  T.  B."  is,  but  I  think  his  verses  very  sweet,  and  Mrs. 
Hughes  may  like  to  see  them.  I  would  rather  have  the  kind  of 
welcome  that  met  you  in  this  country  than  all  the  shouts  of  all 
the  crowds  on  the  "Via  Sacra"  of  Fame.  There  was  ''love" 
in  it,  you  beloved  old  boy,  and  no  man  ever  earns  that  for 
nothing  —  unless  now  and  then  from  a  woman.  By  Jove!  it  is 
worth  writing  books  for  —  such  a  feeling  as  that.  .  .  . 

I  am  holding  "Good-by"  at  arm's  length  as  long  as  I  can, 
but  I  must  come  to  it.   Give  my  kindest  regards  to  Rawlins, 
and  take  all  my  heart  yourself.  God  bless  you.  A  pleasant  voy- 
age, and  all  well  in  the  nest  when  you  get  back  to  it. 
Always  most  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  Lowell. 


LETTERS  503 

To  C.  E.  Norton 

Elmwood,  Sept.  5,  1871. 

.  .  .  Yesterday,  as  I  was  walking  down  the  Beacon  Street 
mall,  the  yellowing  leaves  were  dozily  drifting  from  the  trees, 
and  the  sentiment  of  autmnn  was  in  all  the  air;  though  the  day, 
despite  an  easterly  breeze,  was  sultry.  I  enjoyed  the  laziness  of 
everything  to  the  core,  and  saimtered  as  idly  as  a  thistledown, 
thinking  with  a  pleasurable  twinge  of  sympathy  that  the  fall 
was  beginning  for  me  also,  and  that  the  buds  of  next  season 
were  pushing  our  stems  from  their  hold  on  the  ever-renewing 
tree  of  Life.  I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  fellow,  and  my  sheaves 
are  not  so  many  as  I  hoped;  but  I  am  outwardly  more  prosper- 
ous than  ever  before  —  indeed,  than  ever  I  dreamed  of  being. 
If  none  of  my  stays  give  way,  I  shall  have  a  clear  income  of 
over  four  thousand  a  year,  with  a  house  over  my  head,  and  a 
great  heap  of  what  I  have  always  found  the  best  fertilizer  of 
the  mind  —  leisure.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  this  sense  of  my 
regained  paradise  of  Independence  enHvens  me.  It  is  some- 
thing I  have  not  felt  for  years  —  hardly  since  I  have  been 
a  professor.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  I  am  getting  a  kind  of  fame  — 
though  I  never  valued  that,  as  you  know  —  and  what  is  better, 
a  certain  respect  as  a  man  of  some  solid  qualities,  which  I  do 
value  highly.  I  have  always  beUeved  that  a  man's  fate  is  born 
with  him,  and  that  he  cannot  escape  from  it  nor  greatly  modify 
it  —  and  that  consequently  every  one  gets  in  the  long  run 
exactly  what  he  deserves,  neither  more  nor  less.  At  any  rate, 
this  is  a  cheerful  creed,  and  enables  one  to  sleep  soundly  in  the 
very  shadow  of  Miltiades'  trophy.  What  I  said  long  ago  is  Ht- 
erally  true,  that  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  those  who  believed  in 
us  early  that  we  desire  the  verdict  of  the  world  in  our  favor. 
It  is  the  natural  point  of  honor  to  hold  our  endorsers  harmless. 
...  It  is  always  my  happiest  thought  that  with  all  the  draw- 
backs of  temperament  (of  which  no  one  is  more  keenly  con- 
scious than  myself)  I  have  never  lost  a  friend.  For  I  would 
rather  be  loved  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  always 
thirst  after  affection,  and  depend  more  on  the  expression  of  it 
than  is  altogether  wise.  And  yet  I  leave  the  letters  of  those  I 
love  unanswered  so  long!  It  is  because  the  habits  of  authorship 
are  fatal  to  the  careless  unconsciousness  that  is  the  life  of  a 


504  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

letter,  and  still  more,  in  my  case,  that  I  have  always  something 
on  my  mind  —  an  uneasy  sense  of  disagreeable  duties  to  come, 
which  I  cannot  shake  myself  free  from.  But  worse  than  all  is 
that  lack  of  interest  in  one's  self  that  comes  of  drudgery  —  for 
I  hold  that  a  letter  which  is  not  mainly  about  the  writer  of  it 
lacks  the  prime  flavor.  The  wine  must  smack  a  little  of  the  cask. 
You  will  recognize  the  taste  of  my  old  wood  in  this!  .  .  . 

To  Miss  Norton 

H6tel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  March  4,  1873. 

.  .  .  We  have  enjoyed  our  winter  here  on  the  whole  very 
much,  and  have  really  learned  something  of  the  French  and 
their  ways  —  more  than  ten  years  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 
would  have  done  for  us.  The  French  are  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully made  in  some  respects,  but  I  like  them  and  their  pretty 
ways.  It  is  a  positive  pleasure  (after  home  experiences,  where 
one  has  to  pad  himself  all  over  against  the  rude  elbowing  of 
life)  to  go  and  buy  a  cigar.  It  is  an  affair  of  the  highest  and 
most  gracious  diplomacy,  and  we  spend  more  monsieurs  and 
madames  upon  it  than  would  supply  all  the  traffic  of  Cambridge 
for  a  half -century.  It  is  a  good  drill,  for  I  have  always  been  of 
the  mind  that  in  a  democracy  manners  are  the  only  effective 
weapons  against  the  bowie-knife,  the  only  thing  that  will  save 
us  from  barbarism.  Our  Httle  hotel  is  very  pleasant  in  its  way, 
and  its  clientele  is  of  the  most  respectable.  ...  I  can't  remem- 
ber whether  I  told  Charles  that  one  of  our  convives  turned  out 
to  be  a  gentleman  who  had  lived  many  years  in  Finland,  and 
had  translated  into  French  my  favorite  *'Kalewala."  He  tells 
me  that  the  Finns  recite  their  poems  six  or  seven  hours  on  the 
stretch,  spelling  one  another,  as  we  say  in  New  England.  This 
would  make  easily  possible  the  recitation  of  a  poem  like  the 
"Roland,"  for  example,  or  of  one  even  much  longer.  .  .  . 

To  C.  E,  Norton 

Whitby,!  Aug.  18,  1889. 

.  .  .  You  are  a  little  severe  in  your  judgment  of  English 
society.    Buffalo  Bill  has  been  taken  up  by  a  certain  layer  of 
*  The  watering-place  in  the  north  of  England. 


LETTERS  505 

society,  but  not,  I  should  say,  by  society  in  its  better  sense. 

The has  debased  a  considerable  circle,  the  circumference 

of  which  is  spreading,  as  in  stagnant  pools  a  circle  once  started 
will.  There  is  a  partial  truth  in  what  you  say  about  society 
here  losing  its  fastidiousness,  but  this  is  mainly  true  of  the 

's  set,  and  thbse  who  are  infected  by  it  or  wish  to  be  of  it. 

I  have  not  met  B.  B.,  but  Colonel  Colville  told  me  (you  know 
him,  I  think?)  that  *'B.  B.  was  one  of  the  finest  men  he  ever 
saw  and  of  princely  manners."  Moreover,  he  is  really  a  Some- 
body and  the  best  of  his  kind.  But  I  think  the  true  key  to  this 
eagerness  for  Hons  —  even  of  the  poodle  sort  —  is  the  dulness 
of  the  average  English  mind.  I  never  come  back  here  without 
being  struck  with  it.  Henry  James  said  it  always  stupefied 
him  at  first  when  he  came  back  from  the  Continent.  What 
it  craves  beyond  everything  is  a  sensation,  anything  that  will 
serve  as  a  Worcestershire  sauce  to  its  sluggish  palate.  We 
of  finer  and  more  touchy  fibre  get  our  sensations  cheaper,  and 
do  not  find  Wordsworth's  emotion  over  a  common  flower  so 
very  wonderful.  People  are  dull  enough  on  our  side  of  the 
ocean-stream  also,  God  wot;  but  here,  unless  I  know  my 
people,  I  never  dare  to  let  my  mind  gambol.  Most  of  them,  if  I 
ever  do,  look  on  like  the  famous  deaf  man  at  the  dancers,  won- 
dering to  what  music  I  am  capering.  They  call  us  superficial. 
Let  us  thank  God,  dear  Charles,  that  our  nerves  are  nearer  the 
surface,  not  so  deeply  embedded  in  fat  or  muscle  that  w^t  must 
take  a  pitchfork  to  us. 

I  am  fairly  contented  here,  almost  happy  sometimes,  nay, 
should  be  often,  could  I  jump  off  my  own  shadow.  I  know  no 
expedient  to  get  rid  of  it  but  Peter  Schlemihl's,^  and  alas,  no- 
body, not  even  the  D — 1,  thinks  mine  worth  buying.  'T  is  a 
beautiful  place,  with  associations  that  touch  me  deeply  when 
I  am  conscious  of  them,  and  qualify  my  mood  insensibly  when 
I  am  not.  I  have  done  some  reading  in  Lope  de  Vega,  but  am 
not  drawn  to  him  or  by  him  as  to  and  by  Calderon.  Yet  he  is 
wonderful,  too,  in  his  way.  .  .  . 

^  Peter  Schlemihl,  in  the  story  by  A.  von  Chamisso,  sold  his  shadow  to  an 
agent  of  the  devil. 


5o6  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


To  Mrs.  Edward  Burnett 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  June  14,  1891.* 

.  .  .  Thermometer  76°,  north  veranda  a  paradise,  the  pale 
green  of  the  catalpa  so  beautiful  against  the  darker  of  the 
English  elms  that  I  can  hardly  keep  my  eyes  on  my  paper  to 
write;  Joe  sitting  near  me  doing  his  algebra,  which  he  is  using, 
I  fear,  as  a  prophylactic  against  the  piety  of  church-going,  and 
I  weakly  submitting,  in  the  absence  of  the  domestic  despot  — 
such  is  the  mise-en-scene.  My  handwriting  will  run  down  hill. 
I  suppose  because  /  am  —  in  spite  of  continued  watchfulness 
on  my  part. 

The  house  goes  on  quietly  enough  so  far  as  I  can  see.  .  .  . 
Shall  I  send  you  The  Moonstone?  I  found  it  very  interesting  — 
not  such  a  breakneck  interest  as  Reade's,  where  one  follows  the 
scent  of  the  plot  headlong  as  that  of  a  fox  in  the  hunting-field, 
but  still  with  an  interest  keen  enough  for  the  arm-chair.  I  am 
now  in  the  midst  of  Armadale. 

I  have  said  all  that  I  know,  except  that  George  continues  to 
worry  the  lawn  with  his  two  machines,  one  of  which  perfects 
the  roughness  left  by  the  other.  His  air  when  mounted  on  the 
horse-machine  puts  me  in  mind  of  Neptune  in  the  Iliad.  .  .  . 

EMERSON  THE  LECTURERS 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  Mr.  Emerson  is  the  most  steadily 
attractive  lecturer  in  America.  Into  that  somewhat  cold- 
waterish  region  adventurers  of  the  sensational  kind  come  down 
now  and  then  with  a  splash,  to  become  disregarded  King  Logs 
before  the  next  season.^  But  Mr.  Emerson  always  draws.  A 
lecturer  now  for  something  like  a  third  of  a  century,  one  of  the 
pioneers  of  the  lecturing  system,  the  charm  of  his  voice,  his 
manner,  and  his  matter  has  never  lost  its  power  over  his  earlier 
hearers,  and  continually  winds  new  ones  in  its  enchanting 

1  The  last  letter  but  one:  Lowell  died  on  August  12. 

2  First  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  February,  1861*,  as  a  review  of 
Conduct  0}  Life  ;  revised  in  1868. 

'  According  to  ^sop,  the  frogs  having  petitioned  Jupiter  for  a  king,  Jupiter 
cast  a  log  among  them,  which  ruled  satisfactorily  till  the  frogs  lost  their  fright 
and  knew  the  log  for  what  it  was.  "King  Log"  was  then  "disregarded." 


EMERSON  THE  LECTURER  507 

meshes.  What  they  do  not  fully  understand  they  take  on  trust, 
and  Hsten,  saying  to  themselves,  as  the  old  poet  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  — 

"A  sweet,  attractive,  kind  of  grace, 
A  full  assurance  given  by  looks, 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face, 
The  lineaments  of  gospel  books." 

We  call  it  a  singular  fact,  because  we  Yankees  are  thought 
to  be  fond  of  the  spread-eagle  style,  and  nothing  can  be  more 
remote  from  that  than  his.  We  are  reckoned  a  practical  folk, 
who  would  rather  hear  about  a  new  air-tight  stove  than  about 
Plato ;  yet  our  favorite  teacher's  practicality  is  not  in  the  least 
of  the  Poor  Richard  variety.  If  he  have  any  Buncombe  con- 
stituency, it  is  that  unrealized  commonw^ealth  of  philosophers 
which  Plotinus  proposed  to  establish;  and  if  he  were  to  make 
an  ahnanac,  his  directions  to  farmers  would  be  something  like 
this:  "October:  hidian  Summer;  now  is  the  time  to  get  in 
your  early  Vedas."  What,  then,  is  his  secret?  Is  it  not  that  he 
out-Yankees  us  all?  that  his  range  includes  us  all?  that  he  is 
equally  at  home  with  the  potato-disease  and  original  sin,  with 
pegging  shoes  and  the  Over-Soul?  that,  as  we  try  all  trades,  so 
has  he  tried  all  cultures?  and  above  all,  that  his  mysticism 
gives  us  a  counterpoise  to  our  super-practicahty? 

There  is  no  man  Hving  to  whom,  as  a  writer,  so  many  of  us 
feel  and  thankfully  acknowledge  so  great  an  indebtedness  for 
ennobling  impulses,  —  none  whom  so  many  cannot  abide. 
What  does  he  mean?  ask  these  last.  Wliere  is  his  system?  What 
is  the  use  of  it  all?  What  the  deuce  have  we  to  do  with  Brahma? 
I  do  not  propose  to  write  an  essay  on  Emerson  at  this  time. 
I  wall  only  say  that  one  may  find  grandeur  and  consolation  in  a 
starlit  night  without  caring  to  ask  what  it  means,  save  grandeur 
and  consolation ;  one  may  like  Montaigne,  as  some  ten  genera- 
tions before  us  have  done,  wdthout  thinking  him  so  systematic 
as  some  more  eminently  tedious  (or  shall  we  say  tediously  emi- 
nent?) authors;  one  may  think  roses  as  good  in  their  way  as 
cabbages,  though  the  latter  would  make  a  better  show  in  the 
witness-box,  if  cross-examined  as  to  their  usefulness;  and  as 
for  Brahma,  why,  he  can  take  care  of  himself,  and  won't  bite 
us  at  any  rate. 

The  bother  with  Mr.  Emerson  is,  that,  though  he  writes  in 


5o8  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

prose,  he  is  essentially  a  poet.  If  you  undertake  to  paraphrase 
what  he  says,  and  to  reduce  it  to  words  of  one  syllable  for  infant 
minds,  you  will  make  as  sad  work  of  it  as  the  good  monk  with 
his  analysis  of  Homer  in  the  Epistolce  Obscurorum  Virorum} 
We  look  upon  him  as  one  of  the  few  men  of  genius  whom  our 
age  has  produced,  and  there  needs  no  better  proof  of  it  than  his 
masculine  faculty  of  fecundating  other  minds.  Search  for  his 
,  eloquence  in  his  books  and  you  will  perchance  miss  it,  but  mean- 
while you  will  find  that  it  has  kindled  all  your  thoughts.  For 
choice  and  pith  of  language  he  belongs  to  a  better  age  than 
ours,  and  might  rub  shoulders  with  Fuller  and  Browne,  — 
though  he  does  use  that  abominable  word  reliable.  His  eye  for 
a  fine,  telling  phrase  that  will  carry  true  is  like  that  of  a  back- 
woodsman for  a  rifle;  and  he  will  dredge  you  up  a  choice  word 
— ■  from  the  mud  of  Cotton  Mather  himself.  A  diction  at  once  so 
I  rich  and  so  homely  as  his  I  know  not  where  to  match  in  these 
'  days  of  writing  by  the  page;  it  is  like  homespun  cloth-of-gold. 
The  many  cannot  miss  his  meaning,  and  only  the  few  can  find 
it.  It  is  the  open  secret  of  all  true  genius.  It  is  wholesome  to 
angle  in  those  profound  pools,  though  one  be  rewarded  with 
nothing  more  than  the  leap  of  a  fish  that  flashes  his  freckled 
side  in  the  sun  and  as  suddenly  absconds  in  the  dark  and 
dreamy  waters  again.  There  is  keen  excitement,  though  there 
/be  no  ponderable  acquisition.  If  we  carry  nothing  home  in  our 
/  baskets,  there  is  ample  gain  in  dilated  lungs  and  stimulated 
blood.  What  does  he  mean,  quotha?  He  means  inspiring  hints, 
a  divining-rod  to  your  deeper  nature.  No  doubt,  Emerson, 
like  all  original  men,  has  his  peculiar  audience,  and  yet  I  know 
none  that  can  hold  a  promiscuous  crowd  in  pleased  attention 
so  long  as  he.  As  in  all  original  men,  there  is  something  for 
every  palate.  *' Would  you  know,"  says  Goethe,  ''the  ripest 
cherries?  Ask  the  boys  and  the  blackbirds." 

The  announcement  that  such  a  pleasure  as  a  new  course  of 
lectures  by  him  is  coming,  to  people  as  old  as  I  am,  is  some- 
thing like  those  forebodings  of  spring  that  prepare  us  every 
year  for  a  familiar  novelty,  none  the  less  novel,  when  it  arrives, 
r  because  it  is  familiar.  We  know  perfectly  well  what  we  are  to 
L  expect  from  Mr.  Emerson,  and  yet  what  he  says  always  pene- 
trates and  stirs  us,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  genius,  in  a  very 
^  Letters  oj  Obscure  Men,  a,  Renaissance  work  of  uncertain  authorship. 


EMERSON  THE  LECTURER  509 

unlooked-for  fashion.  Perhaps  genius  is  one  of  the  few  things 
which  we  gladly  allow  to  repeat  itself,  —  one  of  the  few  that 
multiply  rather  than  weaken  the  force  of  their  impression  by 
iteration?  Perhaps  some  of  us  hear  more  than  the  mere  words, 
are  moved  by  something  deeper  than  the  thoughts?  If  it  be  so, 
we  are  quite  right,  for  it  is  thirty  years  and  more  of  ''plain 
living  and  high  thinking''  that  speak  to  us  in  this  altogether 
unique  lay-preacher.  We  have  shared  in  the  beneficence  of  this 
varied  culture,  this  fearless  impartiaUty  in  criticism  and  specu- 
lation, this  mascuHne  sincerity,  this  sweetness  of  nature  which 
rather  stimulates  than  cloys,  for  a  generation  long.  If  ever 
there  was  a  standing  testimonial  to  the  cumulative  power  and 
value  of  Character  (and  we  need  it  sadly  in  these  days),  we 
have  it  in  this  gracious  and  dignified  presence.  What  an  anti- 
septic is  a  pure  life!  At  sixty-five  (or  two  years  beyond  his 
grand  climacteric,  as  he  would  prefer  to  call  it)  he  has  that 
privilege  of  soul  which  abolishes  the  calendar,  and  presents 
him  to  us  always  the  unwasted  contemporary  of  his  own  prime. 
I  do  not  know  if  he  seem  old  to  his  younger  hearers,  but  we  who 
have  known  him  so  long  wonder  at  the  tenacity  with  which  he 
maintains  himself  even  in  the  outposts  of  youth.  I  suppose  it 
is  not  the  Emerson  of  1868  to  whom  we  listen.  For  us  the  whole 
life  of  the  man  is  distilled  in  the  clear  drop  of  every  sentence, 
and  behind  each  word  we  divine  the  force  of  a  noble  character, 
the  weight  of  a  large  capital  of  thinking  and  being.  We  do  not 
go  to  hear  what  Emerson  says  so  much  as  to  hear  Emerson. 
Not  that  we  perceive  any  falling-off  in  anything  that  ever  was 
essential  to  the  charm  of  Mr.  Emerson's  peculiar  style  of 
thought  or  phrase.  The  first  lecture,  to  be  sure,  was  more  dis- 
jointed even  than  common.  It  was  as  if,  after  vainly  trying  to 
get  his  paragraphs  into  sequence  and  order,  he  had  at  last  tried 
the  desperate  expedient  of  shuffling  them.  It  was  chaos  come 
again,  but  it  was  a  chaos  full  of  shooting-stars,  a  jumble  of  cre- 
ative forces.  The  second  lecture,  on  "Criticism  and  Poetry,'* 
was  quite  up  to  the  level  of  old  times,  full  of  that  power  of 
strangely  subtle  association  whose  indirect  approaches  startle 
the  mind  into  almost  painful  attention,  of  those  flashes  of  mu- 
tual understanding  between  speaker  and  hearer  that  are  gone 
ere  one  can  say  it  lightens.  The  vice  of  Emerson's  criticism 
seems  to  be,  that  while  no  man  is  so  sensitive  to  what  is  poeti- 


510  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

cal,  few  men  are  less  sensible  than  he  of  what  makes  a  poem. 
He  values  the  solid  meaning  of  thought  above  the  subtler 
meaning  of  style.  He  would  prefer  Donne,  I  suspect,  to  Spen- 
ser, and  sometimes' mistakes  the  queer  for  the  original. 

To  be  yoimg  is  surely  the  best,  if  the  most  precarious,  gift 
of  life;  yet  there  are  some  of  us  who  would  hardly  consent  to  be 
young  again,  if  it  were  at  the  cost  of  our  recollection  of  Mr. 
Emerson's  first  lectures  during  the  consulate  of  Van  Buren. 
We  used  to  walk  in  from  the  country  to  the  Masonic  Temple 
(I  think  it  was),  through  the  crisp  winter  night,  and  listen  to 
that  thrilling  voice  of  his,  so  charged  with  subtle  meaning  and 
subtle  music,  as  shipwrecked  men  on  a  raft  to  the  hail  of  a  ship 
that  came  with  unhoped-for  food  and  rescue.  Cynics  might 
say  what  they  liked.  Did  our  own  imaginations  transfigure 
dry  remainder-biscuit^  into  ambrosia?  At  any  rate,  he  brought 
us  life,  which,  on  the  whole,  is  no  bad  thing.  Was  it  all  trans- 
i  cendentaHsm?  magic-lantern  pictures  on  mist?  As  you  will. 
Those,  then,  were  just  what  we  wanted.  But  it  was  not  so. 
The  delight  and  the  benefit  were  that  he  put  us  in  communica- 
ition  with  a  larger  style  of  thought,  sharpened  our  wits  with  a 
more  pungent  phrase,  gave  us  ravishing  glimpses  of  an  ideal 
Ainder  the  dry  husk  of  our  New  England;  made  us  conscious  of 
the  supreme  and  everlasting  originality  of  whatever  bit  of  soul 
.might  be  in  any  of  us;  freed  us,  in  short,  from  the  stocks  of 
'prose  in  which  we  had  sat  so  long  that  we  had  grown  well-nigh 
contented  in  our  cramps.  And  who  that  saw  the  audience  will 
ever  forget  it,  where  every  one  still  capable  of  fire,  or  longing 
to  renew  in  himself  the  half -forgotten  sense  of  it,  was  gathered? 
Those  faces,  young  and  old,  agleam  with  pale  intellectual  light, 
eager  with  pleased  attention,  flash  upon  me  once  more  from 
the  deep  recesses  of  the  years  with  an  exquisite  pathos.  Ah, 
beautiful  young  eyes,  brimming  with  love  and  hope,  wholly 
vanished  now  in  that  other  world  we  call  the  Past,  or  peering 
doubtfully  through  the  pensive  gloaming  of  memory,  your 
light  impoverishes  these  cheaper  days!  I  hear  again  that  rustle 
of  sensation,  as  they  turned  to  exchange  glances  over  some 
pithier  thought,  some  keener  flash  of  that  humor  which  always 
played  about  the  horizon  of  his  mind  like  heat-lightning,  and 
it  seems  now  like  the  sad  whisper  of  the  autumn  leaves  that  are 
^  As  You  Like  It,  n,  vii. 


EMERSON  THE  LECTURER  511 

whirling  around  me.   But  would  my  picture  be  complete  if  I 

forgot  that  ample  and  vegete  countenance  of  Mr.  R of 

W ,  —  how,  from  its  regular  post  at  the  corner  of  the  front 

bench,  it  turned  in  ruddy  triumph  to  the  profaner  audience 
as  if  he  were  the  inexplicably  appointed  fugleman  of  apprecia- 
tion? I  was  reminded  of  him  by  those  hearty  cherubs  in  Titian's 
Assumption  that  look  at  you  as  who  should  say,  **Did  you  ever 
see  a  Madonna  like  that  ?  Did  you  ever  behold  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  of  womanhood  mount  heavenward  before  like 
a  rocket?" 

To  some  of  us  that  long-past  experience  remains  as  the  most 
marvellous  and  fruitful  we  have  ever  had.  Emerson  awakened 
us,  saved  us  from  the  body  of  this  death.  It  is  the  sound  of 
the  trumpet  that  the  young  soul  longs  for,  careless  what 
breath  may  fill  it.  Sidney  heard  it  in  the  ballad  of  '^^  Chevy 
Chase,"  and  we  in  Emerson.  Nor  did  it  blow  retreat,  but  called 
to  us  with  assurance  of  victory.  Did  they  say  he  was  discon- 
nected? So  were  the  stars,  that  seemed  larger  to  our  eyes,  still 
keen  with  that  excitement,  as  we  walked  homeward  with 
prouder  stride  over  the  creaking  snow.  And  were  they  not  knit 
together  by  a  higher  logic  than  our  mere  sense  could  master? 
Were  we  enthusiasts?  I  hope  and  believe  we  were,  and  am 
thankful  to  the  man  who  made  us  worth  something  for  once  in 
our  lives.  If  asked  what  was  left?  what  we  carried  home?  we 
should  not  have  been  careful  for  an  answer.  It  would  have  been 
enough  if  we  had  said  that  something  beautiful  had  passed 
that  way.  Or  we  might  have  asked  in  return  what  one  brought 
away  from  a  symphony  of  Beethoven?  Enough  that  he  had 
set  that  ferment  of  wholesome  discontent  at  work  in  us.  There 
is  one,  at  least,  of  those  old  hearers,  so  many  of  whom  are  now 
in  the  fruition  of  that  intellectual  beauty  of  which  Emerson 
gave  them  both  the  desire  and  the  foretaste,  who  will  always 
love  to  repeat:  — 

"  Che  in  la  mente  m'  t  fitta,  ed  or  m'  accuora 
La  cara  e  buona  immagine  paterna 
Di  voi,  quando  nel  mondo  ad  ora  ad  ora 
M'  insegnavaste  come  1'  uom  s'  eterna."  ^ 

^  Dante's  Inferno,  xv,  lines  82-85.  In  Longfellow's  translation:  — 
"For  in  my.  mind  is  fixed,  and  touches  now 
My  heart,  the  dear  and  good  paternal  image 
Of  you,  when  in  the  world  from  hour  to  hour 
You  taught  me  how  a  man  becomes  eternal." 


512  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

I  am  unconsciously  thinking,  as  I  write,  of  the  third  lecture 
of  the  present  course,  in  which  Mr.  Emerson  gave  some  de- 
lightful reminiscences  of  the  intellectual  influences  in  whose 
movement  he  had  shared.  It  was  like  hearing  Goethe  read 
some  passages  of  the  Wahrheit  aus  seinem  Lehen}  Not  that 
there  was  not  a  little  Dichtung,  too,  here  and  there,  as  the  lec- 
turer built  up  so  lofty  a  pedestal  under  certain  figures  as  to  lift 
them  into  a  prominence  of  obscurity,  and  seem  to  masthead 
them  there.  Everybody  was  asking  his  neighbor  who  this  or 
that  recondite  great  man  was,  in  the  faint  hope  that  somebody 
might  once  have  heard  of  him.  There  are  those  who  call  Mr. 
Emerson  cold.  Let  them  revise  their  judgment  in  presence  of 
this  loyalty  of  his  that  can  keep  warm  for  half  a  century,  that 
never  forgets  a  friendship,  or  fails  to  pay  even  a  fancied  obUga- 
tion  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  This  substantiation  of  shadows 
was  but  incidental,  and  pleasantly  characteristic  of  the  man  to 
those  who  know  and  love  him.  The  greater  part  of  the  lecture 
was  devoted  to  reminiscences  of  things  substantial  in  them- 
selves. He  spoke  of  Everett,  fresh  from  Greece  and  Germany; 
of  Channing;  of  the  translations  of  Margaret  Fuller,  Ripley, 
and  Dwight;  of  the  Dial  and  Brook  Farm.  To  what  he  said  of 
the  latter  an  undertone  of  good-humored  irony  gave  special 
zest.  But  what  every  one  of  his  hearers  felt  was  that  the  pro- 
tagonist in  the  drama  was  left  out.  The  lecturer  was  no  JEneas 
to  babble  the  quorum  magna  parsfui,^  and,  as  one  of  his  listen- 
ers, I  cannot  help  wishing  to  say  how  each  of  them  was  com- 
menting the  story  as  it  went  along,  and  filling  up  the  necessary 
gaps  in  it  from  his  own  private  store  of  memories.  His  younger 
hearers  could  not  know  how  much  they  owed  to  the  benign 
impersonality,  the  quiet  scorn  of  everything  ignoble,  the  never- 
sated  hunger  of  self-culture,  that  were  personified  in  the  man 
before  them.  But  the  older  knew  how  much  the  country's  in- 
tellectual emancipation  was  due  to  the  stimulus  of  his  teaching 
and  example,  how  constantly  he  had  kept  burning  the  beacon 
of  an  ideal  life  above  our  lower  region  of  turmoil.  To  him  more 
than  to  all  other  causes  together  did  the  young  martyrs  of  our 
civil  war  owe  the  sustaining  strength  of  thoughtful  heroism 
that  is  so  touching  in  every  record  of  their  lives.   Those  who 

^  The  full  title  is  Aus  meinem  Lehen:  Dichtung  und  Wahrheii  (Poetry  and 
Truth  from  My  Life). 
2  "In  these  events  I  had  a  great  share."  , 


EMERSON  THE  LECTURER  513 

are  grateful  to  Mr.  Emerson,  as  many  of  us  are,  for  what  they 
feel  to  be  most  valuable  in  their  culture,  or  perhaps  I  should 
say  their  impulse,  are  grateful  not  so  much  for  any  direct 
teachings  of  his  as  for  that  inspiring  lift  which  only  genius  can 
give,  and  without  which  all  doctrine  is  chaff. 

This  was  something  like  the  caret  which  some  of  us  older 
boys  wished  to  fill  up  on  the  margin  of  the  master's  lecture. 
Few  man  have  been  so  much  to  so  many,  and  through  so  large 
a  range  of  aptitudes  and  temperaments,  and  this  simply  be- 
cause all  of  us  value  manhood  beyond  any  or  all  other  qualities 
of  character.  We  may  suspect  in  him,  here  and  there,  a  certain 
thinness  and  vagueness  of  quality,  but  let  the  waters  go  over 
him  as  they  list,  this  masculine  fibre  of  his  will  keep  its  lively^ 
color  and  its  toughness  of  texture.'*!  have  heard  some  great 
speakers  and  some  accomplished  orators,  but  never  any  that 
so  moved  and  persuaded  men  as  he.  There  is  a  kind  of  under- 
tow in  that  rich  baritone  of  his  that  sweeps  our  minds  from  their 
foothold  into  deeper  waters  with  a  drift  we  cannot  and  would 
not  resist.  And  how  artfully  (for  Emerson  is  a  long-studied 
artist  in  these  things)  does  the  deliberate  utterance,  that  seems 
waiting  for  the  fit  word,  appear  to  admit  us  partners  in  the 
labor  of  thought  and  make  us  feel  as  if  the  glance  of  humor 
were  a  sudden  suggestion,  as  if  the  perfect  phrase  lying  written 
there  on  the  desk  were  as  unexpected  to  him  as  to  us!  In  that 
closely  filed  speech  of  his  at  the  Burns  centenary  dinner,  every 
word  seemed  to  have  just  dropped  down  to  him  from  the  clouds. 
He  looked  far  away  over  the  heads  of  his  hearers,  with  a  vague 
kind  of  expectation,  as  into  some  private  heaven  of  invention, 
and  the  winged  period  came  at  last  obedient  to  his  spell.  "My 
dainty  Ariel !"^  he  seemed  murmuring  to  himself  as  he  cast 
down  his  eyes  as  if  in  deprecation  of  the  frenzy  of  approval 
and  caught  another  sentence  from  the  Sibylline  leaves  that  lay 
before  him,  ambushed  behind  a  dish  of  fruit  and  seen  only  by 
nearest  neighbors.  Every  sentence  brought  down  the  house,  as 
I  never  saw  one  brought  down  before,  —  and  it  is  not  so  easy 
to  hit  Scotsmen  with  a  sentiment  that  has  no  hint  of  native 
brogue  in  it.  I  watched,  for  it  was  an  interesting  study,  how 
the  quick  sympathy  ran  flashing  from  face  to  face  down  the 
long  tables,  like  an  electric  spark  thrilling  as  it  went,  and  then 
*  The  magician  Prospero  to  the  spirit  Ariel  in  the  Tempest,  v,  i. 


514  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

exploded  in  a  thunder  of  plaudits.  I  watched  till  tables  and 
faces  vanished,  for  I,  too,  found  myself  caught  up  in  the  com- 
mon enthusiasm,  and  my  excited  fancy  set  me  under  the  bema^ 
listening  to  him  who  fulmined  over  Greece.  I  can  never  help 
applying  to  him  what  Ben  Jonson  said  of  Bacon:  "There  hap- 
pened in  my  time  one  noble  speaker,  who  was  full  of  gravity 
in  his  speaking.  His  language  was  nobly  censorious.  No  man 
ever  spake  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suf- 
fered less  emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  No  mem- 
ber of  his  speech  but  consisted  of  his  own  graces.  His  hearers 
could  not  cough,  or  look  aside  from  him,  without  loss.  He  com- 
manded where  he  spoke."  Those  who  heard  him  while  their 
natures  were  yet  plastic,  and  their  mental  nerves  trembled 
under  the  slightest  breath  of  divine  air,  will  never  cease  to  feel 
and  say:  — 

"Was  never  eye  did  see  that  face, 

Was  never  ear  did  hear  that  tongue, 
Was  never  mind  did  mind  his  grace, 

That  ever  thought  the  travail  long; 
But  eyes,  and  ears,  and  every  thought, 
Were  with  his  sweet  perfections  caught." 

THOREAU  2 

What  contemporary,  if  he  was  in  the  fighting  period  of  his 
life  (since  Nature  sets  limits  about  her  conscription  for  spiritual 
fields,  as  the  state  does  in  physical  warfare),  will  ever  forget 
what  was  somewhat  vaguely  called  the  ''Transcendental  Move- 
ment '^  of  thirty  years  ago?  Apparently  set  astir  by  Carlyle's 
essays  on  the  Signs  of  the  Times,  and  on  History,  the  final  and 
more  immediate  impulse  seemed  to  be  given  by  Sartor  Resartus. 
At  least  the  republication  in  Boston  of  that  wonderful  Abraham 
a  Sancta  Clara  sermon  on  Falstaff 's  text  of  the  miserable  forked 
radish  ^  gave  the  signal  for  a  sudden  mental  and  moral  mutiny. 

*  Rostrum;  "him"  doubtless  refers  to  Demosthenes. 

'  First  published  in  the  North  American  Review,  1865.  This  essay  is  generally 
regarded  as  brilliant  but  unsound  —  the  latter  chiefly  because  Thoreau  is 
attacked  for  his  failure  in  an  experiment  which  he  never  really  made. 

•  The  reference  is,  in  general,  to  Sartor  Resartus;  in  particular,  to  Carlyle's 
quotation  from  2  Henry  IV,  iii,  ii,  —  "a  forked  Radish  with  a  head  fantastically 
carved."  (Chapter  entitled  "Adamitism.")  Abraham  £l  Sancta  Clara,  whose 
real  name  was  Ulrich  Megerle  or  Megerlin  (1644-1709),  was  an  Augustinian 
monk  and  court  preacher  at  Vienna. 


THOREAU  S^S 

Ecce  nunc  tempus  acceptahilel  ^  was  shouted  on  all  hands  with 
every  variety  of  emphasis,  and  by  voices  of  every  conceivable 
pitch,  representing  the  three  sexes  of  men,  women,  and  Lady 
!Mary  Wortley  Montagues.  The  nameless  eagle  of  the  tree 
Ygdrasil  was  about  to  sit  at  last,  and  wild-eyed  enthusiasts 
rushed  from  all  sides,  each  eager  to  thrust  imder  the  mystic 
bird  that  chalk  tgg  from  which  the  new  and  fairer  Creation 
was  to  be  hatched  in  due  time.  Redeunt  Saturnia  regna,^  —  so 
far  was  certain,  though  in  what  shape,  or  by  what  methods, 
was  still  a  matter  of  debate.  Every  possible  form  of  intellectual 
and  physical  dyspepsia  brought  forth  its  gospel.  Bran  had  its 
prophets,  and  the  presartorial  simplicity  of  Adam  its  martyrs, 
tailored  impromptu  from  the  tar-pot  by  incensed  neighbors, 
and  sent  forth  to  illustrate  the  "feathered  Mercury,"  as  defined 
by  Webster  and  Worcester.  Plainness  of  speech  was  carried  to 
a  pitch  that  would  have  taken  away  the  breath  of  George  Fox; 
and  even  swearing  had  its  evangelists,  who  answered  a  simple 
inquiry  after  their  health  with  an  elaborate  ingenuity  of  im- 
precation that  might  have  been  honorably  mentioned  by 
Marlborough  in  general  orders.  Everybody  had  a  mission 
(with  a  capital  M)  to  attend  to  everybody  else's  business.  No 
brain  but  had  its  private  maggot,  which  must  have  found  piti- 
ably short  commons  sometimes.  Not  a  few  impecunious  zealots 
abjured  the  use  of  money  (unless  earned  by  other  people),  pro- 
fessing to  live  on  the  internal  revenues  of  the  spirit.  Some  had 
an  assurance  of  instant  millennium  so  soon  as  hooks  and  eyes 
should  be  substituted  for  buttons.  Communities  were  estab- 
lished where  everything  was  to  be  common  but  common  sense. 
Men  renounced  their  old  gods,  and  hesitated  only  whether  to 
bestow  their  furloughed  allegiance  on  Thor  or  Budh.  Conven- 
tions were  held  for  every  hitherto  inconceivable  purpose.  The 
belated  gift  of  tongues,  as  among  the  Fifth  Monarchy  men, 
spread  like  a  contagion,  rendering  its  victims  incomprehensible 
to  all  Christian  men ;  whether  equally  so  to  the  most  distant 
possible  heathen  or  not  was  unexperimented,  though  many 
would  have  subscribed  Kberally  that  a  fair  trial  might  be  made. 
It  was  the  pentecost  of  Shinar.  The  day  of  utterances  repro- 

*  "  Behold  now  the  acceptable  time! " 

'  "The  reign  of  Saturn  returns"  (Virgil's  Fourth  Edogtie)  —  the  inauguration 
of  a  new  Golden  Age. 


5i6  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

duced  the  day  of  rebuses  and  anagrams,  and  there  was  nothing 
so  simple  that  uncial  letters  and  the  style  of  Diphilus  the 
Labyrinth  could  not  turn  it  into  a  riddle.  Many  foreign  revo- 
lutionists out  of  work  added  to  the  general  misunderstanding 
their  contribution  of  broken  English  in  every  most  ingenious 
form  of  fracture.  All  stood  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to 
reform  everything  but  themselves.  The  general  motto  was:  — 

"And  we'll  talk  with  them,  too, 
And  take  upon  's  the  mystery  of  things 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies." 

Nature  is  always  kind  enough  to  give  even  her  clouds  a 
humorous  lining.  I  have  barely  hinted  at  the  comic  side  of  the 
affair,  for  the  material  was  endless.  This  was  the  whistle  and 
trailing  fuse  of  the  shell,  but  there  was  a  very  solid  and  serious 
kernel,  full  of  the  most  deadly  explosiveness.  Thoughtful  men 
divined  it,  but  the  generality  suspected  nothing.  The  word 
"transcendental"  then  was  the  maid  of  all  work  for  those  who 
could  not  think,  as  "Pre-Raphaelite"  has  been  more  recently 
for  people  of  the  same  limited  housekeeping.  The  truth  is,  that 
there  was  a  much  nearer  metaphysical  relation  and  a  much 
more  distant  aesthetic  and  literary  relation  between  Carlyle 
and  the  Apostles  of  the  Newness,  as  they  were  called  in  New 
England,  than  has  commonly  been  supposed.  Both  represented 
the  reaction  and  revolt  against  Philisterei,'^  a  renewal  of  the 
old  battle  begun  in  modern  times  by  Erasmus  and  Reuchlin, 
and  continued  by  Lessing,  Goethe,  and,  in  a  far  narrower  sense, 
by  Heine  in  Germany,  and  of  which  Fielding,  Sterne,  and 
Wordsworth  in  different  ways  have  been  the  leaders  in  Eng- 
land. It  was  simply  a  struggle  for  fresh  air,  in  which,  if  the 
windows  could  not  be  opened,  there  was  danger  that  panes 
would  be  broken,  though  painted  with  images  of  saints  and 
martyrs.  Light,  colored  by  these  reverend  effigies,  was  none 
the  more  respirable  for  being  picturesque.  There  is  only  one 
thing  better  than  tradition,  and  that  is  the  original  and  eternal 
life  out  of  which  all  tradition  takes  its  rise.  It  was  this  Hfe 
which  the  reformers  demanded,  with  more  or  less  clearness  of 
consciousness  and  expression,  life  in  politics,  life  in  literature, 
life  in  religion.  Of  what  use  to  import  a  gospel  from  Judaea,  if 

^  Philistinism. 


THOREAU  517 

we  leave  behind  the  soul  that  made  it  possible,  the  God  who 
keeps  it  forever  real  and  present?  Surely  Abana  and  Pharpar 
are  better  than  Jordan/  if  a  living  faith  be  mixed  with  those 
waters  and  none  with  these. 

Scotch  Presbyterianism  as  a  motive  of  spiritual  progress 
was  dead;  New  England  Puritanism  was  in  like  manner  dead; 
in  other  words,  Protestantism  had  made  its  fortune  and  no 
longer  protested;  but  till  Carlyle  spoke  out  in  the  Old  World 
and  Emerson  in  the  New,  no  one  had  dared  to  proclaim,  Le  roi 
est  mort:  vive  le  roi !  ^  The  meaning  of  which  proclamation  was 
essentially  this :  the  vital  spirit  has  long  since  departed  out  of 
this  form  once  so  kingly,  and  the  great  seal  has  been  in  com- 
mission long  enough;  but  meanwhile  the  soul  of  man,  from 
which  all  power  emanates  and  to  which  it  reverts,  still  survives 
in  undiminished  royalty;  God  still  survives,  little  as  you  gentle- 
men of  the  Commission  seem  to  be  aware  of  it,  —  nay,  will 
possibly  outlive  the  whole  of  you,  incredible  as  it  may  appear. 
The  truth  is,  that  both  Scotch  Presbyterianism  and  New 
England  Puritanism  made  their  new  avatar  in  Carlyle  and 
Emerson,  the  heralds  of  their  formal  decease,  and  the  tendency 
of  the  one  toward  Authority  and  of  the  other  toward  Independ- 
ency might  have  been  prophesied  by  whoever  had  studied  his- 
tory. The  necessity  was  not  so  much  in  the  men  as  in  the  prin- 
ciples they  represented  and  the  traditions  which  overruled 
them.  The  Puritanism  of  the  past  found  its  unwilling  poet  in 
Hawthorne,  the  rarest  creative  imagination  of  the  century,  the 
rarest  in  some  ideal  respects  since  Shakespeare;  but  the  Puri- 
tanism that  cannot  die,  the  Puritanism  that  made  New  England 
what  it  is,  and  is  destined  to  make  America  w^hat  it  should  be, 
found  its  voice  in  Emerson.  Though  holding  himself  aloof  from 
all  active  partnership  in  movements  of  reform,  he  has  been  the 
sleeping  partner  who  has  supplied  a  great  part  of  their  capital. 

The  artistic  range  of  Emerson  is  narrow,  as  every  well-read 
critic  must  feel  at  once;  and  so  is  that  of  ^Eschylus,  so  is  that  of 
Dante,  so  is  that  of  Montaigne,  so  is  that  of  Schiller,  so  is  that 
of  nearly  every  one  except  Shakespeare;  but  there  is  a  gauge 
of  height  no  less  than  of  breadth,  of  individuality  as  well  as 
of  comprehensiveness,  and,  above  all,  there  is  the  standard  of 
genetic  power,  the  test  of  the  masculine  as  distinguished  from 

*  2  Kings  V,  12.  «  "The  King  is  dead:  long  live  the  King!" 


< 


5i8  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL- 

the  receptive  minds.  There  are  staminate  plants  in  literature 
that  make  no  fine  show  of  fruit,  but  without  whose  pollen, 
quintessence  of  fructifying  gold,  the  garden  had  been  barren. 
Emerson's  mind  is  emphatically  one  of  these,  and  there  is  no 
man  to  whom  our  aesthetic  culture  owes  so  much.  The  Puritan 
revolt  had  made  us  ecclesiastically  and  the  Revolution  politi- 
cally independent,  but  we  were  still  socially  and  intellectually 
moored  to  English  thought,  till  Emerson  cut  the  cable  and  gave 
us  a  chance  at  the  dangers  and  the  glories  of  blue  water.  No 
man  young  enough  to  have  felt  it  can  forget  or  cease  to  be 
grateful  for  the  mental  and  moral  nudge  which  he  received 
from  the  writings  of  his  high-minded  and  brave-spirited  coun- 
tryman. That  we  agree  with  him,  or  that  he  always  agrees 
with  himself,  is  aside  from  the  question;  but  that  he  arouses 
in  us  something  that  we  are  the  better  for  having  awakened, 
whether  that  something  be  of  opposition  or  assent,  that  he 
speaks  always  to  what  is  highest  and  least  selfish  in  us,  few 
Americans  of  the  generation  younger  than  his  own  would  be 
disposed  to  deny.  His  oration  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society  at  Cambridge,  some  thirty  years  ago,  was  an  event 
without  any  former  parallel  in  our  literary  annals,  a  scene  to 
be  always  treasured  in  the  memory  for  its  picturesqueness  and 
its  inspiration.  What  crowded  and  breathless  aisles,  what  win- 
dows clustering  with  eager  heads,  what  enthusiasm  of  approval, 
what  grim  silence  of  foregone  dissent !  It  was  our  Yankee  ver- 
sion of  a  lecture  by  Abelard,  our  Harvard  parallel  to  the  last 
public  appearances  of  Schelling. 

I  said  that  the  Transcendental  Movement  was  the  protestant 
spirit  of  Puritanism  seeking  a  new  outlet  and  an  escape  from 
forms  and  creeds  which  compressed  rather  than  expressed  it. 
In  its  motives,  its  preaching,  and  its  results,  it  differed  radically 
from  the  doctrine  of  Carlyle.  The  Scotchman,  with  all  his 
genius,  and  his  humor  gigantesque  as  that  of  Rabelais,  has 
grown  shriller  and  shriller  with  years,  degenerating  sometimes 
into  a  common  scold,  and  emptying  very  unsavory  vials  of 
wrath  on  the  head  of  the  sturdy  British  Socrates  of  worldly 
common  sense.  The  teaching  of  Emerson  tended  much  more 
exclusively  to  self-culture  and  the  independent  development 
of  the  individual  man.  It  seemed  to  many  almost  Pythagorean 
in  its  voluntary  seclusion  from  commonwealth  affairs.   Both 


THOREAU  519 

Carlyle  and  Emerson  were  disciples  of  Goethe,  but  Emerson 
in  a  far  truer  sense;  and  while  the  one,  from  his  bias  toward  the 
eccentric,  has  degenerated  more  and  more  into  mannerism, 
the  other  has  clarified  steadily  toward  perfection  of  style,  — 
exquisite  fineness  of  material,  unobtrusive  lowness  of  tone  and 
simplicity  of  fashion,  the  most  high-bred  garb  of  expression. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  his  thought,  nothing  can  be  finer  than 
the  delicious  limpidness  of  his  phrase.  If  it  was  ever  question- 
able whether  democracy  could  develop  a  gentleman,  the  prob- 
lem has  been  affirmatively  solved  at  last.  Carlyle,  in  his  cyni- 
cism and  his  admiration  of  force  in  and  for  itself,  has  become  at 
last  positively  inhuman;  Emerson,  reverencing  strength,  seek- 
ing the  highest  outcome  of  the  individual,  has  found  that  soci- 
ety and  politics  are  also  main  elements  in  the  attainment  of  the 
desired  end,  and  has  drawn  steadily  manward  and  worldward. 
The  two  men  represent  respectively  those  grand  personifica- 
tions in  the  drama  of  yEschylus,  Bia  and  K/jaTo?.^ 

Among  the  pistillate  plants  kindled  to  fruitage  by  the 
Emersonian  pollen,  Thoreau  is  thus  far  the  most  remarkable; 
and  it  is  something  eminently  fitting  that  his  posthumous 
works  should  be  offered  us  by  Emerson,  for  they  are  strawber- 
ries from  his  own  garden.  A  singular  mixture  of  varieties,  in- 
deed, there  is;  —  alpine,  some  of  them,  with  the  flavor  of  rare 
mountain  air;  others  wood,  tasting  of  sunny  roadside  banks  or 
shy  openings  in  the  forest;  and  not  a  few  seedKngs  swollen 
hugely  by  culture,  but  lacking  the  fine  natural  aroma  of  the 
more  modest  kinds.  Strange  books  these  are  of  his,  and  inter- 
esting in  many  ways,  —  instructive  chiefly  as  showing  how 
considerable  a  crop  may  be  raised  on  a  comparatively  narrow 
close  of  mind,  and  how  much  a  man  may  make  of  his  life  if  he 
will  assiduously  follow  it,  though  perhaps  never  truly  finding 
it  at  last. 

I  have  just  been  renewing  my  recollection  of  Mr.  Thoreau's 
writings,  and  have  read  through  his  six  volumes  in  the  order  of 
their  production.  I  shall  try  to  give  an  adequate  report  of  their 
impression  upon  me  both  as  critic  and  as  mere  reader.  He 
seems  to  me  to  have  been  a  man  with  so  high  a  conceit  of  him- 
self that  he  accepted  without  questioning,  and  insisted  on  our 
accepting,  his  defects  and  weaknesses  of  character  as  virtues 
^  Strength  and  Force,  in  Prometheus  Bound. 


520  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

and  powers  peculiar  to  himself.  Was  he  indolent,  he  finds  none 
I   of  the  activities  which  attract  or  employ  the  rest  of  mankind 
1   worthy  of  him.  Was  he  wanting  in  the  qualities  that  make  sue- 
^  cess,  it  is  success  that  is  contemptible,  and  not  himself  that 
^  lacks  persistency  and  purpose.    Was  he  poor,  money  was  an 
unmixed  evil.  Did  his  life  seem  a  selfish  one,  he  condemns  doing 
good  as  one  of  the  weakest  of  superstitions.   To  be  of  use  was 
with  him  the  most  killing  bait  of  the  wily  tempter  Uselessness. 
He  had  no  faculty  of  generalization  from  outside  of  himself, 
or  at  least  no  experience  which  would  supply  the  material  of 
such,  and  he  makes  his  own  whim  the  law,  his  own  range  the 
horizon  of  the  universe.  He  condemns  a  world,  the  hollowness 
of  whose  satisfactions  he  had  never  had  the  means  of  testing, 
and  we  recognize  Apemantus  behind  the  mask  of  Timon.^  He 
^  had  little  active  imagination;  of  the  receptive  he  had  much. 
j  His  appreciation  is  of  the  highest  quality;  his  critical  power, 
I  from  want  of  continuity  of  mind,  very  limited  and  inadequate. 
He  somewhere  cites  a  simile  from  Ossian,  as  an  example  of  the 
superiority  of  the  old  poetry  to  the  new,  though,  even  were  the 
historic  evidence  less  convincing,  the  sentimental  melancholy 
of  those  poems  should  be  conclusive  of  their  modernness.   He 
had  none  of  the  artistic  mastery  which  controls  a  great  work 
to  the  serene  balance  of  completeness,  but  exquisite  mechanical 
skill  in  the  shaping  of  sentences  and  paragraphs,  or  (more 
rarely)  short  bits  of  verse  for  the  expression  of  a  detached 
thought,  sentiment,  or  image.   His  works  give  one  the  feeling 
of  a  sky  full  of  stars,  —  something  impressive  and  exhilarating 
certainly,  something  high  overhead  and  freckled  thickly  with 
spots  of  isolated  brightness;  but  whether  these  have  any  mu- 
tual relation  with  each  other,  or  have  any  concern  with  our 
mundane  matters,  is  for  the  most  part  matter  of  conjecture,  — 
astrology  as  yet,  and  not  astronomy. 

It  is  curious,  considering  what  Thoreau  afterwards  became, 

that  he  was  not  by  nature  an  observer.  He  only  saw  the  things 

(^  he  looked  for,  and  was  less  poet  than  naturalist.  Till  he  built 

his  Walden  shanty,  he  did  not  know  that  the  hickory  grew  in 

Concord.  Till  he  went  to  Maine,  he  had  never  seen  phosphores- 

^  cent  wood,  a  phenomenon  early  familiar  to  most  country  boys. 

*  Apemantus  is  the  churlish  philosopher,  Timon  the  cynical  hero,  of  Shake- 
speare's Timon  oj  Athens. 


THOREAU  521 

At  forty  he  speaks  of  the  seeding  of  the  pine  as  a  new  discovery, 
though  one  should  have  thought  that  its  gold-dust  of  blowing 
pollen  might  have  earlier  drawn  his  eye.  Neither  his  attention 
nor  his  genius  was  of  the  spontaneous  kind.    He  discovered 
nothing.   He  thought  everything  a  discovery  of  his  own,  from 
moonlight  to  the  planting  of  acorns  and  nuts  by  squirrels.  This 
is  a  defect  in  his  character,  but  one  of  his  chief  charms  as  a 
writer.   Everything  grows  fresh  under  his  hand.  He  delved  in 
his  mind  and  nature;  he  planted  them  with  all  manner  of  native 
and  foreign  seeds,  and  reaped  assiduously.  He  was  not  merely  , 
soHtary,  he  would  be  isolated,  and  succeeded  at  last  in  almost 
persuading  himself  that  he  was  autochthonous.    He  valued  j 
everything  in  proportion  as  he  fancied  it  to  be  exclusively  his  I 
own.  He  complains  in  Walden  that  there  is  no  one  in  Concord 
with  whom  he  could  talk  of  Oriental  Hterature,  though  the 
man  was  living  within  two  miles  of  his  hut  who  had  introduced 
him  to  it.    This  intellectual  selfishness  becomes  sometimes 
almost  painful  in  reading  him.   He  lacked  that  generosity  of 
^'communication"   which  Johnson   admired   in   Burke.     De 
Quincey  tells  us  that  Wordsworth  was  impatient  when  any  one 
else  spoke  of  mountains,  as  if  he  had  a  peculiar  property  in 
them.   And  we  can  readily  understand  why  it  should  be  so: 
no  one  is  satisfied  with  another's  appreciation  of  his  mistress. 
But  Thoreau  seems  to  have  prized  a  lofty  way  of  thinking 
(often  we  should  be  inclined  to  call  it  a  remote  one)  not  so 
much  because  it  was  good  in  itseK  as  because  he  wished  few  to 
share  it  with  him.  It  seems  now  and  then  as  if  he  did  not  seek 
to  lure  others  up  "above  our  lower  region  of  turmoil,"  but  to 
leave  his  own  name  cut  on  the  mountain  peak  as  the  first 
climber.  This  itch  of  originality  infects  his  thought  and  style. 
To  be  misty  is  not  to  be  mystic.  He  turns  commonplaces  end 
for  end,  and  fancies  it  makes  something  new  of  them.   As  we 
walk  down  Park  Street,^  our  eye  is  caught  by  Dr.  Winship's 
dumb-bells,  one  of  w^hich  bears  an  inscription  testifying  that  it 
is  the  heaviest  ever  put  up  at  arm's  length  by  any  athlete; 
and  in  reading  Mr.  Thoreau's  books  we  cannot  help  feeling  as 
if  he  sometimes  invited  our  attention  to  a  particular  sophism 
or  paradox  as  the  biggest  yet  maintained  by  any  single  writer. 
He  seeks,  at  all  risks,  for  perversity  of  thought,  and  revives  the 

*  Boston. 


522  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

.;  age  of  concetti^  while  he  fancies  himself  going  back  to  a  pre- 
i   classical  nature.   **A  day,"  he  says,  "passed  in  the  society  of 
those  Greek  sages,  such  as  described  in   the  'Banquet'  of 
Xenophon,  would  not  be  comparable  with  the  dry  wit  of  de- 
cayed cranberry-vines  and  the  fresh  Attic  salt  of  the  moss- 
beds."  It  is  not  so  much  the  True  that  he  loves  as  the  Out-of- 
the-Way.    As  the  Brazen  Age  shows  itself  in  other  men  by 
\  exaggeration  of  phrase,  so  in  him  by  extravagance  of  state- 
//  ment.  He  wishes  always  to  trump  your  suit  and  to  ruff  when 
•    you  least  expect  it.  Do  you  love  Nature  because  she  is  beauti- 
ful? He  will  find  a  better  argument  in  her  ugliness.  Are  you 
tired  of  the  artificial  man?    He  instantly  dresses  you  up  an 
ideal  in  a  Penobscot  Indian,  and  attributes  to  this  creature  of 
his  otherwise-mindedness  as  peculiarities  things  that  are  com- 
mon to  all  woodsmen,  white  or  red,  and  this  simply  because  he 
has  not  studied  the  pale-faced  variety. 

This  notion  of  an  absolute  originality,  as  if  one  could  have 
a  patent-right  in  it,  is  an  absurdity.  A  man  cannot  escape  in 
thought,  any  more  than  he  can  in  language,  from  the  past  and 
the  present.  As  no  one  ever  invents  a  word,  and  yet  language 
somehow  grows  by  general  contribution  and  necessity,  so  it  is 
with  thought.  Mr.  Thoreau  seems  to  me  to  insist  in  public  on 
going  back  to  flint  and  steel,  when  there  is  a  match-box  in  his 
pocket  which  he  knows  very  well  how  to  use  at  a  pinch. 
Originality  consists  in  power  of  digesting  and  assimilating 
thoughts,  .so  that  they  become  part  of  our  life  and  substance. 
Montaigne,  for  example,  is  one  of  the  most  original  of  authors, 
•  though  he  helped  himself  to  ideas  in  every  direction.  But  they 
turn  to  blood  and  coloring  in  his  style,  and  give  a  freshness  of 
complexion  that  is  forever  charming.  In  Thoreau  much  seems 
yet  to  be  foreign  and  unassimilated,  showing  itself  in  symp- 
toms  of  indigestion.    A  preacher-up  of  Nature,  we  now  and 
\then  detect  under  the  surly  and  stoic  garb  something  of  the 
Wophist  and  the  sentimentalizer.   I  am  far  from  implying  that 
/this  was  conscious  on  his  part.  But  it  is  much  easier  for  a  man 
'  to  impose  on  himself  when  he  measures  only  with  himself.   A 
greater  familiarity  with  ordinary  men  would  have  done  Tho- 
reau good,  by  showing  him  how  many  fine  qualities  are  common 
to  the  race.  The  radical  vice  of  his  theory  of  life  was  that  he 

^  Conceits. 


THOREAU  523 

confounded  physical  with  spiritual  remoteness  from  men.  A 
man  is  far  enough  withdrawn  from  his  fellows  if  he  keep  himself 
clear  of  their  weaknesses.  He  is  not  so  truly  withdrawn  as 
exiled,  if  he  refuse  to  share  in  their  strength.  "Solitude,"  says 
Cowley,  "can  be  well  fitted  and  set  right  but  upon  a  very  few 
persons.  They  must  have  enough  knowledge  of  the  world  to 
see  the  vanity  of  it,  and  enough  virtue  to  despise  all  vanity." 
It  is  a  morbid  self-consciousness  that  pronounces  the  world  of 
men  empty  and  worthless  before  trying  it,  the  instinctive  eva- 
sion of  one  who  is  sensible  of  some  innate  weakness,  and  retorts 
the  accusation  of  it  before  any  has  made  it  but  himseK.  To  a 
healthy  mind,  the  world  is  a  constant  challenge  of  opportunity. 
Mr.  Thoreau  had  not  a  healthy  mind,  or  he  would  not  have 
been  so  fond  of  prescribing.  His  whole  life  was  a  search  for  the 
doctor.  The  old  mystics  had  a  wiser  sense  of  what  the  world 
was  worth.  They  ordained  a  severe  apprenticeship  to  law,  and 
even  ceremonial,  in  order  to  the  gaining  of  freedom  and  mas- 
tery over  these.  Seven  years  of  service  for  Rachel  were  to  be 
rewarded  at  last  with  Leah.^  Seven  other  years  of  faithfulness 
with  her  were  to  win  them  at  last  the  true  bride  of  their  souls. 
Active  Life  was  with  them  the  only  path  to  the  Contemplative. 
Thoreau  had  no  hiunor,  and  this  implies  that  he  was  a  sorry 
logician.  Himself  an  artist  in  rhetoric,  he  confounds  thought 
with  style  when  he  undertakes  to  speak  of  the  latter.  He  was 
forever  talking  of  getting  away  from  the  world,  but  he  must 
be  always  near  enough  to  it,  nay,  to  the  Concord  corner  of  it, 
to  feel  the  impression  he  makes  there.  He  verifies  the  shrewd 
remark  of  Sainte-Beuve,  "On  touche  encore  a  son  temps  et 
tres-fort,  meme  quand  on  le  repousse."  ^  This  egotism  of  his  is 
a  Stylites  pillar  ^  after  all,  a  seclusion  which  keeps  him  in  the 
public  eye.  The  dignity  of  man  is  an  excellent  thing,  but 
therefore  to  hold  one's  self  too  sacred  and  precious  is  the  reverse 
of  excellent.  There  is  something  delightfully  absurd  in  six 
volumes  addressed  to  a  world  of  such  "vulgar  fellows"  as 
Thoreau  affirmed  his  fellow  men  to  be.  I  once  had  a  glimpse  of 
a  genuine  solitary  who  spent  his  winters  one  hundred  and  fifty 

^  Genesis  xxrx,  18-25. 

'  "  One  is  strongly  attracted  to  one's  time,  even  when  one  repulses  it."    "     ^ 

•  "  Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 

Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet,  and  snow." 

(Tennyson's  "St.  Simeon  Stylites,"  a  type  of  the  "pillar  saints.") 


524  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

miles  beyond  all  human  conamunication,  and  there  dwelt  with 
his  rifle  as  his  only  confidant.  Compared  with  this,  the  shanty 
on  Walden  Pond  has  something  the  air,  it  must  be  confessed, 
of  the  Hermitage  of  La  Chevrette.^  I  do  not  believe  that  the 
way  to  a  true  cosmopolitanism  carries  one  into  the  woods  or 
the  society  of  musquashes.  Perhaps  the  narrowest  provincial- 
ism is  that  of  Self;  that  of  Kleinwinkel^  is  nothing  to  it.  The 
natural  man,  like  the  singing  birds,  comes  out  of  the  forest  as 
inevitably  as  the  natural  bear  and  the  wildcat  stick  there.  To 
seek  to  be  natural  implies  a  consciousness  that  forbids  all 
naturalness  forever.  It  is  as  easy  —  and  no  easier  —  to  be 
natural  in  a  salon  as  in  a  swamp,  if  one  do  not  aim  at  it,  for 
what  we  call  unnaturalness  always  has  its  spring  in  a  man's 
thinking  too  much  about  himself.  *'It  is  impossible,"  said 
Turgot,  ''for  a  vulgar  man  to  be  simple." 

I  look  upon  a  great  deal  of  the  modern  sentimentalism  about 
Nature  as  a  mark  of  disease.  It  is  one  more  symptom  of  the 
general  liver-complaint.  To  a  man  of  wholesome  constitution 
the  wilderness  is  well  enough  for  a  mood  or  a  vacation,  but  not 
for  a  habit  of  life.  Those  who  have  most  loudly  advertised  their 
passion  for  seclusion  and  their  intimacy  with  Nature,  from 
Petrarch  down,  have  been  mostly  sentimentalists,  unreal  men, 
misanthropes  on  the  spindle  side,  solacing  an  uneasy  suspicion 
of  themselves  by  professing  contempt  for  their  kind.  They 
make  demands  on  the  world  in  advance  proportioned  to  their 
inward  measure  of  their  own  merit,  and  are  angry  that  the 
world  pays  only  by  the  visible  measure  of  performance.  It  is 
true  of  Rousseau,  the  modern  founder  of  the  sect,  true  of  Saint 
Pierre,  his  intellectual  child,  and  of  Chateaubriand,  his  grand- 
child, the  inventor,  we  might  almost  say,  of  the  primitive  for- 
est, and  who  first  was  touched  by  the  solemn  falling  of  a  tree 
from  natural  decay  in  the  windless  silence  of  the  woods.  It  is 
a  very  shallow  view  that  affirms  trees  and  rocks  to  be  healthy, 
and  cannot  see  that  men  in  communities  are  just  as  true  to  the 
laws  of  their  organization  and  destiny;  that  can  tolerate  the 
puffin  and  the  fox,  but  not  the  fool  and  the  knave;  that  would 
shun  politics  because  of  its  demagogues,  and  snuff  up  the  stench 
of  the  obscene  fungus.  The  divine  life  of  Nature  is  more  won- 

^  An  attractive  cottage  which  Mme.  d'Epinay  furnished  for  Rousseau. 
2  "Little-comer." 


THOREAU  52s 

derful,  more  various,  more  sublime  in  man  than  in  any  other 
of  her  works,  and  the  wisdom  that  is  gained  by  commerce  with 
men,  as  Montaigne  and  Shakespeare  gained  it,  or  with  one's 
own  soul  among  men,  as  Dante,  is  the  most  delightful,  as  it  is 
the  most  precious,  of  all.  In  outward  nature  it  is  still  man  that 
interests  us,  and  we  care  far  less  for  the  things  seen  than  the 
way  in  which  they  are  seen  by  poetic  eyes  like  Wordsworth's 
or  Thoreau's,  and  the  reflections  they  cast  there.  To  hear  the 
to-do  that  is  often  made  over  the  simple  fact  that  a  man  sees 
the  image  of  himself  in  the  outward  world,  one  is  reminded  of  a 
savage  when  he  for  the  first  time  catches  a  glimpse  of  himself  in 
a  looking-glass.  *' Venerable  child  of  Nature,"  we  are  tempted 
to  say,  ''to  whose  science  in  the  invention  of  the  tobacco-pipe, 
to  whose  art  in  the  tattooing  of  thine  undegenerate  hide  not 
yet  enslaved  by  tailors,  we  are  slowly  striving  to  climb  back, 
the  miracle  thou  beholdest  is  sold  in  my  unhappy  country  for 
a  shilling!"  If  matters  go  on  as  they  have  done,  and  every- 
body must  needs  blab  of  all  the  favors  that  have  been  done  him 
by  roadside  and  river-brink  and  woodland  walk,  as  if  to  kiss 
and  tell  were  no  longer  treachery,  it  will  be  a  positive  refresh- 
ment to  meet  a  man  who  is  as  superbly  indifferent  to  Nature 
as  she  is  to  him.  By  and  by  we  shall  have  John  Smith,  of  No. 
-12  -12th  Street,  advertising  that  he  is  not  the  J.  S.  who  saw  a 
cow-lily  on  Thursday  last,  as  he  never  saw  one  in  his  life,  would 
not  see  one  if  he  could,  and  is  prepared  to  prove  an  alibi  on  the 
day  in  question. 

^  SoHtary  communion  with  Nature  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  sanitary  or  sweetening  in  its  influence  on  Thoreau's  char- 
acter. On  the  contrary,  his  letters  show  him  more  cynical  as 
he  grew  older.  While  he  studied  with  respectful  attention  the 
minks  and  woodchucks,  his  neighbors,  he  looked  with  utter 
contempt  on  the  august  drama  of  destiny  of  which  his  country 
was  the  scene,  and  on  which  the  curtain  had  already  risen.  He 
was  converting  us  back  to  a  state  of  nature  "so  eloquently,"  as 
Voltaire  said  of  Rousseau,  "that  he  almost  persuaded  us  to  go 
on  all  fours,"  while  the  wiser  fates  were  making  it  possible  for 
us  to  walk  erect  for  the  first  time.  Had  he  conversed  more  with 
his  fellows,  his  sympathies  would  have  widened  with  the  assur- 
ance that  his  peculiar  genius  had  more  appreciation,  and  his 
writings  a  larger  circle  of  readers,  or  at  least  a  warmer  one,  than 


526  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

he  dreamed  of.  We  have  the  highest  testimony^  to  the  natural 
sweetness,  sincerity,  and  nobleness  of  his  temper,  and  in  his 
books  an  equally  irrefragable  one  to  the  rare  quality  of  his 
mind.  He  was  not  a  strong  thinker,  but  a  sensitive  feeler.  Yet 
his  mind  strikes  us  as  cold  and  wintry  in  its  purity.  A  light 
snow  has  fallen  everywhere  in  which  he  seems  to  come  on  the 
track  of  the  shier  sensations  that  would  elsewhere  leave  no 
trace.  We  think  greater  compression  would  have  done  more 
for  his  fame.  A  feeling  of  sameness  comes  over  us  as  we  read 
so  much.  Trifles  are  recorded  with  an  over-minute  punctuality 
and  conscientiousness  of  detail.  He  registers  the  state  of  his 
personal  thermometer  thirteen  times  a  day.  We  cannot  help 
thinking  sometimes  of  the  man  who 

"Watches,  starves,  freezes,  and  sweats  — 
To  learn  but  catechisms  and  alphabets 
Of  unconcerning  things,  matters  of  fact," 

and  sometimes  of  the  saying  of  the  Persian  poet,  that  "when 
the  owl  would  boast,  he  boasts  of  catching  mice  at  the  edge  of 
a  hole."  We  could  readily  part  with  some  of  his  affectations. 
It  was  well  enough  for  Pythagoras  to  say,  once  for  all,  ''When  I 
was  Euphorbus  at  the  siege  of  Troy";  not  so  well  for  Thoreau 
to  travesty  it  into  ''When  I  was  a  shepherd  on  the  plains  of 
Assyria."  A  naive  thing  said  over  again  is  anything  but  naive. 
But  with  every  exception,  there  is  no  writing  comparable  with 
Thoreau's  in  kind,  that  is  comparable  with  it  in  degree  where 
it  is  best;  where  it  disengages  itself,  that  is,  from  the  tangled 
roots  and  dead  leaves  of  a  second-hand  Orientalism,  and  runs 
limpid  and  smooth  and  broadening  as  it  runs,  a  mirror  for 
whatever  is  grand  and  lovely  in  both  worlds. 

George  Sand  says  neatly,  that  "Art  is  not  a  study  of  posi- 
tive reality"  {actuality  were  the  fitter  word),  "but  a  seeking 
after  ideal  truth."  It  would  be  doing  very  inadequate  justice 
to  Thoreau  if  we  left  it  to  be  inferred  that  this  ideal  element 
did  not  exist  in  him,  and  that  too  in  larger  proportion,  if  less 
obtrusive,  than  his  nature- worship.  He  took  nature  as  the 
mountain-path  to  an  ideal  world.  If  the  path  wind  a  good  deal, 
if  he  record  too  faithfully  every  trip  over  a  root,  if  he  botanize 
somewhat  wearisomely,  he  gives  us  now  and  then  superb  out- 

^  Mr.  Emerson,  in  the  Biographical  Sketch  prefixed  to  the  Excursions. 
[Author's  note.] 


THOREAU  527 

looks  from  some  jutting  crag,  and  brings  us  out  at  last  into  an 
illimitable  ether,  where  the  breathing  is  not  difficult  for  those 
who  have  any  true  touch  of  the  climbing  spirit.  His  shanty- 
life  was  a  mere  impossibility,  so  far  as  his  own  conception  of 
it  goes,  as  an  entire  independency  of  mankind.  The  tub  of 
Diogenes  had  a  sounder  bottom.  Thoreau's  experiment  actu- 
ally presupposed  all  that  complicated  civilization  which  it 
theoretically  abjured.  He  squatted  on  another  man's  land;  he 
borrows  an  axe;  his  boards,  his  nails,  his  bricks,  his  mortar, 
his  books,  his  lamp,  his  fish-hooks,  his  plough,  his  hoe,  all  turn 
state's  evidence  against  him  as  an  accomplice  in  the  sin  of  that 
artificial  civilization  which  rendered  it  possible  that  such  a 
person  as  Henry  D.  Thoreau  should  exist  at  all.  Magnis  tamen 
excidit  ausis}  His  aim  was  a  noble  and  a  useful  one,  in  the 
direction  of  "plain  living  and  high  thinking."  It  was  a  practi- 
cal sermon  on  Emerson's  text  th^t "  things  are  in  the  saddle  and 
ride  mankind,"  ^  an  attempt  to  solve  Carlyle's  problem  (con- 
densed from  Johnson)  of  'lessening  your  denominator."  ^  His 
whole  life  was  a  rebuke  of  the  waste  and  aimlessness  of  our 
American  luxury,  which  is  an  abject  enslavement  to  tawdry 
upholstery.  He  had  "fine  translunary  things"^  in  him.  His 
better  style  as  a  writer  is  in  keeping  with  the  simpHcity  and 
purity  of  his  life.  We  have  said  that  his  range  was  narrow,  but 
to  be  a  master  is  to  be  a  master.  He  had  caught  his  English 
at  its  living  source,  among  the  poets  and  prose-writers  of  its 
best  days;  his  literature  was  extensive  and  recondite;  his  quo- 
tations are  always  nuggets  of  the  purest  ore:  there  are  sentences 
of  his  as  perfect  as  anything  in  the  language,  and  thoughts  as 
clearly  crystallized;  his  metaphors  and  images  are  always 
fresh  from  the  soil;  he  had  watched  Nature  Hke  a  detective 
who  is  to  go  upon  the  stand;  as  we  read  him,  it  seems  as  if  all- 
out-of-doors  had  kept  a  diary  and  become  its  own  Montaigne; 
we  look  at  the  landscape  as  in  a  Claude  Lorraine^  glass;  com- 
pared with  his,  all  other  books  of  similar  aim,  even  White's 
Selborne,^  seem  dry  as  a  country  clergyman's  meteorological 

'  "Although  he  dared  great  things,  yet  he  died." 

*  See  Emerson's  "Ode,"  in  Poems,  p.  78,  Centenary  Edition. 

*  See  Sartor  Resartus,  chapter  entitled  "The  Everlasting  Yea." 

*  " Brave  translunary  things."    (Donne's  "Dedication  of  Eleonora.") 

*  Claude  Gel^e  (1600-82),  a  French  painter  of  landscapes. 

'  The  Natural  History  oj  Selborne,  by  Gilbert  White  (1720-93). 


528  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

journal  in  an  old  almanac.  He  belongs  with  Donne  and  Browne 
and  Novalis;  if  not  with  the  originally  creative  men,  with  the 
scarcely  smaller  class  who  are  pecuHar,  and  whose  leaves  shed 
their  invisible  thought-seed  like  ferns. 


DANTEi 

Like  all  great  artistic  minds,  Dante  was  essentially  conserv- 
ative, and,  arriving  precisely  in  that  period  of  transition  when 
Church  and  Empire  were  entering  upon  the  modern  epoch  of 
thought,  he  strove  to  preserve  both  by  presenting  the  theory 
of  both  in  a  pristine  and  ideal  perfection.  The  whole  nature  of 
Dante  was  one  of  intense  beHef .  There  is  proof  upon  proof  that 
he  believed  himself  invested  with  a  divine  mission.  Like  the 
Hebrew  prophets,  with  whose  writings  his  whole  soul  was  im- 
bued, it  was  back  to  the  old  worship  and  the  God  of  the  fathers 
that  he  called  his  people;  and  not  Isaiah  himself  was  more 
•destitute  of  that  humor,  that  sense  of  ludicrous  contrast,  which 
^is  an  essential  in  the  composition  of  a  sceptic.  In  Dante's  time, 
learning  had  something  of  a  sacred  character;  the  line  was 
•hardly  yet  drawn  between  the  clerk  and  the  possessor  of  super- 
natural powers;  it  was  with  the  next  generation,  with  the  ele- 
gant Petrarch,  even  more  truly  than  with  the  kindly  Boccaccio, 
that  the  purely  literary  life,  and  that  dilettantism,  which  is 
thetwin  sister  of  scepticism,  began.  As  a  merely  literary  figure, 
the  position  of  Dante  is  remarkable.  Not  only  as  respects 
thought,  but  as  respects  aesthetics  also,  his  great  poem  stands 
as  a  monument  on  the  boundary  line  between  the  ancient  and 
modern.  He  not  only  marks,  but  is  in  himself,  the  transition. 
Arma  virumque  cano,  that  is  the  motto  of  classic  song;^  the 
things  of  this  world  and  great  men.  Dante  says,  subjectum  est 
homo,  not  vir;  my  theme  is  man,  not  a  man.  The  scene  of  the 

^  Though  pubKshed  in  the  North  American  Review  of  July,  1872,  as  a  review 
of  The  Shadow  of  Dante,  by  Maria  Francesca  Rossetti,  Lowell's  "Dante"  is  to 
be  regarded  as  the  culmination  of  twenty  years  of  ardent  study  and  teaching. 
"It  was  in  the  teaching  of  Dante  that  Lowell  made  the  strongest  impression  on 
the  students  who  gathered  about  him,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  reminiscences 
which  more  than  one  has  printed."  (Horace  E.  Scudder,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
II,  p.  385.)  In  the  Riverside  Edition  of  Lowell's  Prose  Works,  the  essay  runs  to 
147  pages.  The  passages  wanting  in  the  present  text  are  concerned  mainly  with 
an  interpretation  of  Dante's  life  and  works,  especially  the  Divina  Commedia. 

2  Y\ig\V-s.Mneid. 


'  DANTE  529 

old  epic  and  drama  was  in  this  world,  and  its  catastrophe  here; 
Dante  lays  his  scene  in  the  human  soul,  and  his  fifth  act  in  the 
other  world.  He  makes  himself  the  protagonist  of  his  own 
drama.  In  the  Commedia  for  the  first  time  Christianity  wholly 
revolutionizes  Art,  and  becomes  its  seminal  principle.  But 
aesthetically  also,  as  well  as  morally,  Dante  stands  between  the 
old  and  the  new,  and  reconciles  them.  The  theme  of  his  poem 
is  purely  subjective,  modern,  what  is  called  romantic;  but  its 
treatment  is  objective  (almost  to  realism,  here  and  there),  and 
it  is  limited  by  a  form  of  classic  severity.  In  the  same  way  he 
sums  up  in  himself  the  two  schools  of  modern  poetry  which  had 
preceded  him,  and,  while  essentially  lyrical  in  his  subject,  is 
epic  in  the  handling  of  it.  So  also  he  combines  the  deeper  and 
more  abstract  religious  sentiment  of  the  Teutonic  races  with 
the  scientific  precision  and  absolute  systematism  of  the 
Romanic.  In  one  respect  Dante  stands  alone.  While  we  can 
in  some  sort  account  for  such  representative  men  as  Voltaire 
and  Goethe  (nay,  even  Shakespeare)  by  the  intellectual  and 
moral  fermentation  of  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  Dante  seems 
morally  isolated  and  to  have  drawn  his  inspiration  almost 
wholly  from  his  own  internal  reserves.  Of  his  mastery  in  style 
we  need  say  httle  here.  Of  his  mere  language,  nothing  could  be 
better  than  the  expression  of  Rivarol:^  ''His  verse  holds  itself 
erect  by  the  mere  force  of  the  substantive  and  verb,  without 
the  help  of  a  single  epithet."  We  will  only  add  a  word  on  what 
seems  to  us  an  extraordinary  misapprehension  of  Coleridge, 
who  disparages  Dante  by  comparing  his  Lucifer  with  Milton's 
Satan.  He  seems  to  have  forgotten  that  the  precise  measure- 
ments of  Dante  were  not  prosaic,  but  absolutely  demanded  by 
the  nature  of  his  poem.  He  is  describing  an  actual  journey,  and 
his  exactness  makes  a  part  of  the  verisimilitude.  We  read  the 
Paradise  Lost  as  a  poem,  the  Commedia  as  a  record  of  fact;  and 
no  one  can  read  Dante  without  believing  his  story,  for  it  is 
plain  that  he  believed  it  himself.  It  is  false  aesthetics  to  con- 
found the  grandiose  with  the  imaginative.  Milton's  angels  are 
not  to  be  compared  with  Dante's,  at  once  real  and  supernatural; 
and  the  Deity  of  Milton  is  a  Calvinistic  Zeus,  while  nothing  in 

*  "Rivarol,  who  translated  the  Inferno  in  1783,  was  the  first  Frenchman  who 
divined  the  wonderful  force  and  vitality  of  the  Commedia."  (Lowell,  "Dante," 
pp.  143-44,  Riverside  Edition.) 


530  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

all  poetry  approaches  the  imaginative  grandeur  of  Dante's 
vision  of  God  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Paradiso.  In  all  literary 
history  there  is  no  such  figure  as  Dante,  no  such  homogeneous- 
ness  of  life  and  works,  such  loyalty  to  ideas,  such  sublime 
irrecognition  of  the  unessential;  and  there  is  no  moral  more 
touching  than  that  the  contemporary  recognition  of  such  a 
nature,  so  endowed  and  so  faithful  to  its  endowment,  should  be 
summed  up  in  the  sentence  of  Florence:  Igne  comburatur  sic 
quod  moriatur} 

The  range  of  Dante's  influence  is  not  less  remarkable  than 
its  intensity.  Minds,  the  antipodes  of  each  other  in  temper  and 
endowment,  alike  feel  the  force  of  his  attraction,  the  pervasive 
comfort  of  his  light  and  warmth.  Boccaccio  and  Lamennais 
are  touched  with  the  same  reverential  enthusiasm.  The  imag- 
inative Ruskin  is  rapt  by  him,  as  we  have  seen,  perhaps  beyond 
the  limit  where  critical  appreciation  merges  in  enthusiasm;^ 
and  the  matter-of-fact  Schlosser  tells  us  that  *'he,  who  was 
wont  to  contemplate  earthly  life  wholly  in  an  earthly  light, 
has  made  use  of  Dante,  Landino,  and  Vellutello  in  his  solitude 
to  bring  a  heavenly  Hght  into  his  inward  Ufe."  Almost  all  other 
poets  have  their  seasons,  but  Dante  penetrates  to  the  moral 
core  of  those  who  once  fairly  come  within  his  sphere,  and  pos- 
sesses them  wholly.  His  readers  turn  students,  his  students 
zealots,  and  what  was  a  taste  becomes  a  religion.  The  homeless 
exile  finds  a  home  in  thousands  of  grateful  hearts:  E  da  esilio 
venne  a  questa  pace} 

Every  kind  of  objection,  aesthetic  and  other,  may  be,  and 
has  been,  made  to  the  Divina  Commedia,  especially  by  critics 

^  "Let  him  be  buraed  with  fire  so  that  he  die." 

In  order  to  fix  more  precisely  in  the  mind  the  place  of  Dante  in  relation  to 
the  history  of  thought,  literature,  and  events,  we  subjoin  a  few  dates:  Dante 
born,  1265;  end  of  Crusades,  death  of  St.  Louis,  1270;  Aquinas  died,  1274; 
Bonaventura  died,  1274;  Giotto  born,  1276;  Albertus  Magnus  died,  1280;  Sicilian 
vespers,  1282;  death  of  UgoHno  and  Francesca  da  Rimini,  1282;  death  of  Bea- 
trice, 1290;  Roger  Bacon  died,  1292;  death  of  Cimabue,  1302;  Dante's  banish- 
ment, 1302;  Petrarch  born,  1304;  Fra  Dolcino  burned,  1307;  Pope  Clement  V 
at  Avignon,  1309;  Templars  suppressed,  1312;  Boccaccio  bom,  1313;  Dante  died, 
1321;  Wycliffe  born,  1324;  Chaucer  born,  1328.   [Author's  note.] 

2  "Perhaps  no  other  man  could  have  called  forth  such  an  expression  as  that  of 
Ruskin,  that '  the  central  man  of  all  the  world,  as  representing  in  perfect  balance 
the  imaginative,  moral,  and  intellectual  faculties,  all  at  their  highest,  is  Dante.' " 
(Lowell,  "Dante,"  pp.  147-48,  Riverside  Edition.) 

'  "Out  of  exile  he  came  into  this  peace." 


DANTE  531 

who  have  but  a  superficial  acquaintance  with  it,  or  rather  with 
the  Inferno,  which  is  as  far  as  most  English  critics  go.  Cole- 
ridge himseK,  who  had  a  way  of  divining  what  was  in  books, 
may  be  justly  suspected  of  not  going  further,  though  with 
Cary  to  help  him.  Mr.  Carlyle,  who  has  said  admirable  things 
of  Dante  the  man,  was  very  imperfectly  read  in  Dante  the 
author,  or  he  would  never  have  put  Sordello  in  hell  and  the 
meeting  with  Beatrice  in  paradise.  In  France  it  was  not  much 
better  (though  Rivarol  has  said  the  best  thing  hitherto  of 
Dante's  parsimony  of  epithet^)  before  Ozanam,  who,  if  with 
decided  ultramontane  leanings,  has  written  excellently  well  of 
our  poet,  and  after  careful  study.  Voltaire,  though  not  without 
relentings  toward  a  poet  who  had  put  popes  heels  upward  in 
hell,  regards  him  on  the  whole  as  a  stupid  monster  and  bar- 
barian. It  was  no  better  in  Italy,  if  we  may  trust  Foscolo,  who 
affirms  that  ''neither  Pelli  nor  others  deservedly  more  cele- 
brated than  he  ever  read  attentively  the  poem  of  Dante,  per- 
haps never  ran  through  it  from  the  first  verse  to  the  last."  ^ 
Accordingly  we  have  heard  that  the  Commedia  was  a  sermon, 
a  political  pamphlet,  the  revengeful  satire  of  a  disappointed 
Ghibelline,  nay,  worse,  of  a  turncoat  Guelph.  It  is  narrow,  it  is 
bigoted,  it  is  savage,  it  is  theological,  it  is  mediaeval,  it  is 
heretical,  it  is  scholastic,  it  is  obscure,  it  is  pedantic,  its  Italian 
is  not  that  of  la  Crusca,^  its  ideas  are  not  those  of  an  enlightened 
eighteenth  centiiry,  it  is  everything,  in  short,  that  a  poem 
should  not  be;  and  yet,  singularly  enough,  the  circle  of  its 
charm  has  widened  in  proportion  as  men  have  receded  from 
the  theories  of  Church  and  State  which  are  supposed  to  be  its 
foundation,  and  as  the  modes  of  thought  of  its  author  have 
become  more  alien  to  those  of  his  readers.  In  spite  of  all 
objections,  some  of  which  are  well  founded,  the  Commedia 
remains  one  of  the  three  or  four  universal  books  that  have  ever 
been  written. 

1  Rivarol  characterized  only  a  single  quality  of  Dante's  style,  who  knew  how 
to  spend  as  well  as  spare.  Even  the  Inferno,  on  which  he  based  his  remark,  might 
have  put  him  on  his  guard.  Dante  understood  very  well  the  use  of  ornament  in 
its  fitting  place.  Est  enim  exornatio  alicujus  convenientis  additio,  he  tells  us  in  his 
De  Vulgari  Eloquio  (lib.  ii,  cap.  i.).  His  simile  of  the  doves  (Inferno,  v,  82  et  seq.), 
perhaps  the  most  exquisite  in  all  poetry,  quite  oversteps  Rivarol's  narrow  limit 
of  "substantive  and  verb."  [Author's  note,] 

2  Discorso  sul  testo,  ec,  §  xviii.  [Author's  note.] 

'  A  Florentine  academy  similar  to  the  French  Academy. 


532  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

We  may  admit,  with  proper  limitations,  the  modern  dis- 
tinction between  the  Artist  and  the  Moralist.  With  the  one 
Form  is  all  in  all,  with  the  other  Tendency.  The  aim  of  the  one 
is  to  delight,  of  the  other  to  convince.  The  one  is  master  of  his 
purpose,  the  other  niastered  by  it.  The  whole  range  of  percep- 
tion and  thought  is  valuable  to  the  one  as  it  will  minister  to 
imagination,  to  the  other  only  as  it  is  available  for  argument. 
With  the  morahst  use  is  beauty,  good  only  as  it  serves  an 
ulterior  purpose;  with  the  artist  beauty  is  use,  good  in  and  for 
itself.  In  the  fine  arts  the  vehicle  makes  part  of  the  thought, 
coalesces  with  it.  The  living  conception  shapes  itself  a  body 
in  marble,  color,  or  modulated  sound,  and  henceforth  the  two 
are  inseparable.  The  results  of  the  morahst  pass  into  the  intel- 
lectual atmosphere  of  mankind,  it  matters  little  by  what  mode 
of  conveyance.  But  where,  as  in  Dante,  the  religious  sentiment 
and  the  imagination  are  both  organic,  something  interfused 
with  the  whole  being  of  the  man,  so  that  they  work  in  kindly 
sympathy,  the  moral  will  insensibly  suffuse  itself  with  beauty 
as  a  cloud  with  light.  Then  that  fine  sense  of  remote  analogies, 
awake  to  the  assonance  between  facts  seemingly  remote  and 
unrelated,  between  the  outward  and  inward  worlds,  though 
convinced  that  the  things  of  this  hfe  are  shadows,  will  be  per- 
suaded also  that  they  are  not  fantastic  merely,  but  imply  a 
substance  somewhere,  and  will  love  to  set  forth  the  beauty  of 
the  visible  image  because  it  suggests  the  ineffably  higher 
charm  of  the  unseen  original.  Dante's  ideal  of  life,  the  enlight- 
ening and  strengthening  of  that  native  instinct  of  the  soul 
which  leads  it  to  strive  backward  toward  its  divine  source, 
may  sublimate  the  senses  till  each  becomes  a  window  for  the 
light  of  truth  and  the  splendor  of  God  to  shine  through.  In 
him  as  in  Calderon  the  perpetual  presence  of  imagination  not 
only  glorifies  the  philosophy  of  life  and  the  science  of  theology, 
but  idealizes  both  in  S3mibols  of  material  beauty.  Though 
Dante's  conception  of  the  highest  end  of  man  was  that  he 
should  climb  through  every  phase  of  human  experience  to  that 
transcendental  and  supersensual  region  where  the  true,  the 
good,  and  the  beautiful  blend  in  the  white  light  of  God,  yet 
the  prism  of  his  imagination  forever  resolved  the  ray  into  color 
again,  and  he  loved  to  show  it  also  where,  entangled  and 
obstructed  in  matter,  it  became  beautiful  once  more  to  the  eye 


DANTE  533 

of  sense.  Speculation,  he  tells  us,  is  the  use,  without  any  mix- 
ture, of  our  noblest  part  (the  reason).  And  this  part  cannot  in 
this  life  have  its  perfect  use,  which  is  to  behold  God  (who  is 
the  highest  object  of  the  intellect),  except  inasmuch  as  the 
intellect  considers  and  beholds  him  in  his  effects.^  Underlying 
Dante  the  metaphysician,  statesman,  and  theologian,  was 
always  Dante  the  poet,^  irradiating  and  vivifying,  gleaming 
through  in  a  picturesque  phrase,  or  touching  things  unexpect- 
edly with  that  ideal  Hght  which  softens  and  subdues  like  dis- 
tance in  the  landscape.  The  stem  outline  of  his  system  wavers 
and  melts  away  before  the  eye  of  the  reader  in  a  mirage  of  un- 
agination  that  lifts  from  beyond  the  sphere  of  vision  and  hangs 
in  serener  air  images  of  infinite  suggestion  projected  from 
worlds  not  realized,  but  substantial  to  faith,  hope,  and  aspira- 
tion. Beyond  the  horizon  of  speculation  floats,  in  the  passion- 
less splendor  of  the  empyrean,  the  city  of  our  God,  the  Rome 
whereof  Christ  is  a  Roman, ^  the  citadel  of  refuge,  even  in  this 
life,  for  souls  purified  by  sorrow  and  seK-denial,  transhuman- 
ized^  to  the  divine  abstraction  of  pure  contemplation.  "And 
it  is  called  Empyrean,"  he  says  in  his  letter  to  Can  Grande, 
"which  is  the  same  as  a  heaven  blazing  with  fire  or  ardor,  not 
because  there  is  in  it  a  material  fire  or  burning,  but  a  spiritual 
one,  which  is  blessed  love  or  charity."  But  this  splendor  he 
bodies  forth,  if  sometimes  quaintly,  yet  always  vividly  and 
most  often  in  types  of  winning  grace. 

Dante  was  a  mystic  with  a  very  practical  turn  of  mind.  A 
Platonist  by  nature,  an  AristoteUan  by  training,  his  feet  keep 
closely  to  the  narrow  path  of  dialectics,  because  he  believed  it 
the  safest,  while  his  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  stars  and  his  brain  is 
busy  with  things  not  demonstrable,  save  by  that  grace  of  God 

*  Convito,  Tr.  iv,  c.  xxn.  [Author's  note.] 

'  It  is  remarkable  that  when  Dante,  in  1297,  as  a  preliminary  condition  to 
active  politics,  enrolled  himself  in  the  guild  of  physicians  and  apothecaries,  he  is 
qualified  only  with  the  title  poeta.  The  arms  of  the  AUghieri  (curiously  suitable 
to  hini  who  sovra  gli  altri  come  aquila  vola)  were  a  wing  of  gold  in  a  field  of  azure. 
His  vivid  sense  of  beauty  even  hovers  sometimes  like  a  corposant  over  the  some- 
what stiff  lines  of  his  Latin  prose.  For  example,  in  his  letter  to  the  kings  and 
princes  of  Italy  on  the  coming  of  Henry  VII:  "A  new  day  brightens,  revealing 
the  dawn  which  already  scatters  the  shades  of  long  calamity;  already  the  breezes 
of  morning  gather;  the  lips  of  heaven  are  reddening  I"  [Author's  note.] 

3  PurgatoriOj  xxxn,  100.  [Author's  note.] 

*  FaradisOy  i,  70.  [Author's  note.] 


534  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

which  passeth  all  understanding,  nor  capable  of  being  told 
unless  by  far-off  hints  and  adumbrations.  Though  he  himself 
has  directly  explained  the  scope,  the  method,  and  the  larger 
meaning  of  his  greatest  work,^  though  he  has  indirectly  pointed 
out  the  way  to  its  interpretation  in  the  Convito,  and  though 
everything  he  wrote  is  but  an  explanatory  comment  on  his 
own  character  and  opinions,  unmistakably  clear  and  precise, 
yet  both  man  and  poem  continue  not  only  to  be  misunderstood 
popularly,  but  also  by  such  as  should  know  better. ^  That 
those  who  confined  their  studies  to  the  Commedia  should  have 
interpreted  it  variously  is  not  wonderful,  for  out  of  the  first  or 
literal  meaning  others  open,  one  out  of  another,  each  of  wider 
circuit  and  purer  abstraction,  like  Dante's  own  heavens,  giving 
and  receiving  light.^  Indeed,  Dante  himself  is  partly  to  blame 
for  this.  **The  form  or  mode  of  treatment,"  he  says, ''  is  poetic, 
fictive,  descriptive,  digressive,  transumptive,  and  withal  defini- 
tive, divisive,  probative,  improbative,  and  positive  of  exam- 
ples." Here  are  conundrums  enough,  to  be  sure!  To  Italians 
at  home,  for  whom  the  great  arenas  of  political  and  religious 
speculation  were  closed,  the  temptation  to  find  a  subtler  mean- 
ing than  the  real  one  was  irresistible.  Italians  in  exile,  on  the 
other  hand,  made  Dante  the  stalking-horse  from  behind  which 
they  could  take  a  long  shot  at  Church  and  State,  or  at  obscurer 
foes.^  Infinitely  touching  and  sacred  to  us  is  the  instinct  of 
intense  sympathy  which  draws  these  latter  toward  their  great 
forerunner,  exul  immeritus^  Uke  themselves.^   But  they  have 

^  In  a  letter  tp  Can  Grande  (xi  of  the  Epistolce).  [Author's  note.] 

2  Witte,  Wegele,  and  Ruth  in  German,  and  Ozanam  in  French,  have  rendered 
ignorance  of  Dante  inexcusable  among  men  of  culture.  [Author's  note.] 

'  Inferno,  vii,  75.  "Nay,  his  style,"  says  Miss  Rossetti,  "is  more  than  concise: 
it  is  elliptical,  it  is  recondite.  A  first  thought  often  lies  coiled  up  and  hidden 
under  a  second;  the  words  which  state  the  conclusion  involve  the  premises  and 
develop  the  subject"  (p.  3).  [Author's  note;  the  reference  is  to  The  Shadow  of 
Dante,  by  Maria  Francesca  Rossetti.] 

^  A  complete  vocabulary  of  Italian  billingsgate  might  be  selected  from 
Biagioli.  Or  see  the  concluding  pages  of  Nannucci's  excellent  tract,  Intorno  alle 
voci  usate  da  Dante,  Corfu,  1840.  Even  Foscolo  could  not  always  refrain.  Dante 
should  have  taught  them  to  shun  such  vulgarities.  See  Inferno,  xxx,  131-48. 
[Author's  note.] 

5  "One  unjustly  exiled." 

'  "My  Italy,  my  sweetest  Italy,  for  having  loved  thee  too  much  I  have  lost 
thee,  and,  perhaps,  ...  ah,  may  God  avert  the  omen!  But  more  proud  than  sor- 
rowful for  an  evil  endured  for  thee  alone,  I  continue  to  consecrate  my  vigils  to 
thee  alone.  ...  An  exile  full  of  anguish,  perchance,  availed  to  sublime  the  more 


BANTE  535 

too  often  wrung  a  meaning  from  Dante  which  is  injurious  to 
the  man  and  out  of  keeping  with  the  ideas  of  his  age.  The  aim 
in  expounding  a  great  poem  should  be,  not  to  discover  an  end- 
less variety  of  meanings  often  contradictory,  but  whatever  it 
has  of  great  and  perennial  significance;  for  such  it  must  have, 
or  it  would  long  ago  have  ceased  to  be  living  and  operative, 
would  long  ago  have  taken  refuge  in  the  Chartreuse  of  great 
hbraries,  dumb  thenceforth  to  all  mankind.  We  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  this  minute  exegesis  is  useless  or  unpraiseworthy, 
but  only  that  it  should  be  subsidiary  to  the  larger  way.  It 
serves  to  bring  out  more  clearly  what  is  very  wonderful  in 
Dante,  namely,  the  omnipresence  of  his  memory  throughout 
the  work,  so  that  its  intimate  coherence  does  not  exist  in  spite 
of  the  reconditeness  and  complexity  of  allusion,  but  is  woven 
out  of  them.  The  poem  has  many  senses,  he  tells  us,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  it;  but  it  has  also,  and  this  alone  will  account 
for  its  fascination,  a  living  soul  behind  them  all  and  informing 
all,  an  intense  singleness  of  purpose,  a  core  of  doctrine  simple, 
himian,  and  wholesome,  though  it  be  also,  to  use  his  own 
phrase,  the  bread  of  angels. 

Nor  is  this  unity  characteristic  only  of  the  Divina  Commedia. 
All  the  works  of  Dante,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
De  Vulgari  Eloqiiio  (which  is  unfinished),  are  component  parts 
of  a  Whole  Duty  of  Man  mutually  completing  and  interpret- 
ing one  another.  They  are  also,  as  truly  as  Wordsworth's 
Prelude,  a  history  of  the  growth  of  a  poet's  mind.  Like  the 
English  poet  he  valued  himself  at  a  high  rate,  the  higher  no 
doubt  after  Fortune  had  made  him  outwardly  cheap.  Sempre 
il  magnanhno  si  magnifica  in  suo  cuore;  e  cost  lo  pusillanimo  per 
cotttrario  sempre  si  tiene  meno  che  non  e}  As  in  the  prose  of 
Milton,  whose  striking  likeness  to  Dante  in  certain  prominent 
features  of  character  has  been  remarked  by  Foscolo,  there  are 

in  thy  Alighieri  that  lofty  soul  which  was  a  beautiful  gift  of  thy  smiling  sky; 
and  an  exile  equally  wearisome  and  undeser\-ed  now  avails,  perhaps,  to  sharpen 
my  small  genius  so  that  it  may  penetrate  into  what  he  left  written  for  thy 
instruction  and  for  his  glory."  (Rossetti,  Disamina,  ec,  p.  405.)  Rossetti  is 
himself  a  proof  that  a  noble  mind  need  not  be  narrowed  by  misfortune.  His 
Comment  (unhappily  incomplete)  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  and  suggestive. 
[Author's  note.] 

^  The  great-minded  man  ever  magnifies  himself  in  his  heart,  and  in  like  man- 
ner the  pusillanimous  holds  himself  less  than  he  is.  {Conviio,  Tr.  i,  c.  11.) 
[Author's  note,] 


536  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

in  Dante's  minor  works  continual  allusions  to  himself  of  great 
value  as  material  for  his  biographer.  Those  who  read  atten- 
tively will  discover  that  the  tenderness  he  shows  toward  Fran- 
cesca  and  her  lover^  did  not  spring  from  any  friendship  for  her 
family,  but  was  a  constant  quality  of  his  nature,  and  that  what 
is  called  his  revengeful  ferocity  is  truly  the  implacable  resent- 
ment of  a  lofty  mind  and  a  lover  of  good  against  evil,  whether 
showing  itself  in  private  or  pubUc  life;  perhaps  hating  the 
former  manifestation  of  it  the  most  because  he  beUeved  it  to 
be  the  root  of  the  latter,  —  a  faith  which  those  who  have 
watched  the  course  of  politics  in  a  democracy,  as  he  had,  will 
be  LQcHned  to  share.  His  gentleness  is  all  the  more  striking  by 
contrast,  like  that  silken  compensation  which  blooms  out  of 
the  thorny  stem  of  the  cactus.  His  moroseness,^  his  party 
spirit,  and  his  personal  vindictiveness  are  all  predicated  upon 
the  Inferno,  and  upon  a  misapprehension  or  careless  reading 
even  of  that.  Dante's  zeal  was  not  of  that  sentimental  kind, 
quickly  kindled  and  as  soon  quenched,  that  hovers  on  the  sur- 
face of  shallow  minds, 

''Even  as  the  flame  of  unctuous  things  is  wont 
To  move  upon  the  outer  surface  only";  ^ 

it  was  the  steady  heat  of  an  inward  fire  kindling  the  whole 
character  of  the  man  through  and  through,  like  the  minarets 
of  his  own  city  of  Dis.^  He  was,  as  seems  distinctive  in  some 
degree  of  the  Latinized  races,  an  unflinching  a  priori  logician, 
not  unwilling  to  "syllogize  invidious  verities,"  ^  wherever  they 
might  lead  him,  like  Sigier,  whom  he  has  put  in  paradise, 
though  more  than  suspected  o\  heterodoxy.  But  at  the  same 
time,  as  we  shall  see,  he  had  something  of  the  practical  good 
sense  of  that  Teutonic  stock  whence  he  drew  a  part  of  his  blood, 
which  prefers  a  malleable  syllogism  that  can  yield  without 

*  Inferno,  v,  73-141. 

2  Dante's  notion  of  virtue  was  not  that  of  an  ascetic,  nor  has  any  one  ever 
painted  her  in  colors  more  soft  and  splendid  than  he  in  the  Convito.  She  is 
"sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes,"  and  he  dwells  on  the  deUghts  of  her  love 
with  a  rapture  which  kindles  and  purifies.  So  far  from  making  her  an  inquisitor, 
he  says  expressly  that  she  "should  be  gladsome  and  not  sullen  in  all  her  works." 
(Convito,  Tr.  i,  c.  8.)  "Not  harsh  and  crabbed  as  dull  fools  suppose"!  [Author's 
note.] 

'  Inferno,  xix,  28,  29.  [Author's  note.] 

*  Inferno,  viii,  70-75.  [Author's  note.] 
I   *  Paradiso,  x,  138.  [Author's  note.] 


DANTE  537 

breaking  to  the  inevitable,  but  incalculable  pressure  of  human 
nature  and  the  stiffer  logic  of  events.  His  theory  of  Church 
and  State  was  not  merely  a  fantastic  one,  but  intended  for  the 
use  and  benefit  of  men  as  they  were;  and  he  allowed  accordingly 
for  aberrations,  to  which  even  the  law  of  gravitation  is  forced 
to  give  place;  how  much  more,  then,  any  scheme  whose  very 
starting-point  is  the  freedom  of  the  will! 

The  relation  of  Dante  to  literature  is  monumental,  and 
marks  the  era  at  which  the  modem  begins.  He  is  not  only  the 
first  great  poet,  but  the  first  great  prose  writer  who  used  a  lan- 
guage not  yet  subdued  to  Hterature,  who  used  it  moreover  for 
scientific  and  metaphysical  discussion,  thus  giving  an  incalcu- 
lable impulse  to  the  culture  of  his  coimtrymen  by  making  the 
laity  free  of  what  had  hitherto  been  the  exclusive  guild  of 
clerks.^  WTiatever  poetry  had  preceded  him,  whether  in  the 
Romance  or  Teutonic  tongues,  is  interesting  mainly  for  its 
simplicity  without  forethought,  or,  as  in  the  Nihelungen,  for  a 
kind  of  savage  grandeur  that  rouses  the  sympathy  of  whatever 
of  the  natural  man  is  dormant  in  us.  But  it  shows  no  trace  of 
the  creative  faculty  either  in  unity  of  purpose  or  style,  the 
proper  characteristics  of  Hterature.  If  it  have  the  charm  of 
wanting  artifice,  it  has  not  the  higher  charm  of  art.  We  are  in 
the  realm  of  chaos  and  chance,  nebular,  with  phosphorescent 
gleams  here  and  there,  star-stuff,  but  uncondensed  in  stars. 
The  Nihelungen  is  not  without  far-reaching  hints  and  forebod- 
ings of  something  finer  than  we  find  in  it,  but  they  are  a 
glamour  from  the  vague  darkness  which  encircles  it,  like  the 
whisper  of  the  sea  upon  an  unknown  shore  at  night,  powerful 
only  over  the  more  vulgar  side  of  the  imagination,  and  lea\ing 
no  thought,  scarce  even  any  image  (at  least  of  beauty)  behind 
them.  Such  poems  are  the  amours,  not  the  lasting  friendships 
and  possessions  of  the  mind.  They  thrill  and  cannot  satisfy. 

But  Dante  is  not  merely  the  founder  of  modern  Hterature. 

1  See  Wegele,  iM  supra,  p.  174  et  seq.  The  best  analysis  of  Dante's  opinions 
we  have  ever  met  with  is  Emil  Ruth's  Sttidien  iiber  Dante  Alighieri,  Tubingen, 
1853.  Unhappily  it  wants  an  mdex,  and  accordingly  loses  a  great  part  of  its 
usefulness  for  those  not  already  familiar  with  the  subject.  Nor  are  its  references 
sufficiently  exact.  We  always  respect  Dr.  Ruth's  opinions,  if  we  do  not  wholly 
accept  them,  for  they  are  all  the  results  of  original  and  assiduous  study.  [Author's 
note.] 


538  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

He  would  have  been  that  if  he  had  never  written  anything 
more  than  his  Canzoni,  which  for  elegance,  variety  of  rhythm, 
and  fervor  of  sentiment  were  something  altogether  new.  They 
are  of  a  higher  mood  than  any  other  poems  of  the  same  style 
in  their  own  language,  or  indeed  in  any  other.  In  beauty  of 
phrase  and  subtlety  of  analogy  they  remind  one  of  some  of  the 
Greek  tragic  choruses.  We  are  constantly  moved  in  them  by  a 
nobleness  of  tone,  whose  absence  in  many  admired  lyrics  of  the 
kind  is  poorly  supplied  by  conceits.  So  perfect  is  Dante's 
mastery  of  his  material,  that  in  compositions,  as  he  himself 
has  shown,  so  artificial,^  the  form  seems  rather  organic  than 
mechanical,  which  cannot  be  said  of  the  best  of  the  Provencal 
poets  who  led  the  way  in  this  kind.  Dante's  sonnets  also  have 
a  grace  and  tenderness  which  have  been  seldom  matched.  His 
lyrical  excellence  would  have  got  him  into  the  Collections,  and 
he  would  have  made  here  and  there  an  enthusiast  as  Donne 
does  in  English,  but  his  great  claim  to  remembrance  is  not 
merely  Italian.  It  is  that  he  was  the  first  Christian  poet,  in 
any  proper  sense  of  the  word,  the  first  who  so  subdued  dogma 
to  the  uses  of  plastic  imagination  as  to  make  something  that  is 
still  poetry  of  the  highest  order  after  it  has  suffered  the  disen- 
chantment inevitable  in  the  most  perfect  translation.  Verses 
of  the  kind  usually  called  sacred  (reminding  one  of  the  adjec- 
tive's double  meaning)  had  been  written  before  his  time  in 
the  vulgar  tongue,  such  verses  as  remain  inviolably  sacred  in  the 
volumes  of  specimens,  looked  at  with  distant  reverence  by  the 
pious,  and  with  far  other  feelings  by  the  profane  reader.  There 
were  cycles  of  poems  in  which  the  physical  conflict  between 
Christianity  and  Paganism ^  furnished  the  subject,  but  in 
which  the  theological  views  of  the  authors,  whether  doctrinal 
or  historical,  could  hardly  be  reconciled  with  any  system  of 
religion  ancient  or  modern.    There  were  Church  legends  of 

^  See  the  second  book  of  the  De  Vulgari  Eloqido.  The  only  other  Italian  poet 
who  reminds  us  of  Dante  in  sustained  dignity  is  Guido  Guinicelli.  Dante  es- 
teemed him  highly,  calls  him  maximus  in  the  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  and  "  the  father 
of  me  and  of  my  betters,"  in  the  xxvi  Purgatorio.  See  some  excellent  specimens 
of  him  in  Mr.  D.  G.  Rossetti's  remarkable  volume  of  translations  from  the  early 
ItaUan  poets.  Mr.  Rossetti  would  do  a  real  and  lasting  service  to  literature  by 
employing  his  singular  gift  in  putting  Dante's  minor  poems  into  English. 
[Author's  note.] 

2  The  old  French  poems  confound  all  unbelievers  together  as  pagans  and 
worshippers  of  idols.  [Author's  note.] 


DANTE  539 

saints  and  martyrs  versified,  fit  certainly  to  make  any  other 
form  of  martyrdom  seem  amiable  to  those  who  heard  them, 
add  to  suggest  palliative  thoughts  about  Diocletian.  Finally, 
there  were  the  romances  of  Arthur  and  his  knights,  which  later, 
by  means  of  allegory,  contrived  to  be  both  entertaining  and 
edif>dng;  every  one  who  listened  to  them  paying  the  minstrel 
his  money,  and  having  his  choice  whether  he  would  take  them 
as  song  or  sermon.  In  the  heroes  of  some  of  these  certain 
Christian  virtues  were  typified,  and  around  a  few  of  them,  as 
the  Holy  Grail,  a  perfume  yet  fingers  of  cloistered  piety  and* 
withdrawal.  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach,  indeed,  has  divided  his 
Parzival  into  three  books,  of  Simpficity,  Doubt,  and  Heafing, 
which  has  led  Gervinus  to  trace  a  not  altogether  fanciful 
analogy  between  that  poem  and  the  Divina  Commedia.  The 
doughty  old  poet,  who  says  of  himself,  — 

"Of  song  I  have  some  slight  control, 
But  deem  her  of  a  feeble  soul 
That  doth  not  love  my  naked  sword 
Above  my  sweetest  lyric  word," 

tells  us  that  his  subject  is  the  choice  between  good  and  evil; 

"Whose  soul  takes  Untruth  for  its  bride 
And  sets  himself  on  Evil's  side, 
Chooses  the  Black,  and  sure  it  is 
His  path  leads  down  to  the  abyss; 
But  he  who  doth  his  nature  feed 
With  steadfastness  and  loyal  deed 
Lies  open  to  the  heavenly  light 
And  takes  his  portion  with  the  White." 

But  Wolfram's  poem  has  no  system,  and  shows  good  feefing 
rather  than  settled  conviction.  Above  all  it  is  wandering  (as  he 
himself  confesses),  and  altogether  wants  any  controlling  pur- 
pose. But  to  whatever  extent  Christianity  had  insinuated 
itself  into  and  colored  European  literature,  it  was  mainly  as 
mythology.  The  Christian  idea  had  never  yet  incorporated 
itself.  It  was  to  make  its  avatar  in  Dante.  To  understand  fully 
what  he  accomplished  we  must  form  some  conception  of  what 
is  meant  by  the  Christian  idea.  To  bring  it  into  fuller  refief, 
let  us  contrast  it  with  the  Greek  idea  as  it  appears  in  poetry; 
for  we  are  not  dealing  with  a  question  of  theology  so  much  as 
with  one  of  aesthetics. 


540  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Greek  art  at  its  highest  point  is  doubtless  the  most  perfect 
that  we  know.  But  its  circle  of  motives  was  essentially  limited; 
and  the  Greek  drama  in  its  passion,  its  pathos,  and  its  humt)r 
is  primarily  Greek,  and  secondarily  human.  Its  tragedy 
chooses  its  actors  from  certain  heroic  families,  and  finds  its 
springs  of  pity  and  terror  in  physical  suffering  and  worldly 
misfortune.  Its  best  examples,  like  the  Antigone,  illustrate  a 
single  duty,  or,  hke  the  Hippolytus,  a  single  passion,  on  which, 
as  on  a  pivot,  the  chief  character,  statuesquely  simple  in  its 
'details,  revolves  as  pieces  of  sculpture  are  sometimes  made  to 
do,  displaying  its  different  sides  in  one  invariable  Hght.  The 
general  impression  left  on  the  mind  (and  this  is  apt  to  be  a 
truer  one  than  any  drawn  from  single  examples)  is  that  the 
duty  is  one  which  is  owed  to  custom,  that  the  passion  leads  to 
a  breach  of  some  convention  settled  by  common  consent,^  and 
accordingly  it  is  an  outraged  society  whose  figure  looms  in  the 
background,  rather  than  an  offended  God.  At  most  it  was  one 
god  of  many,  and  meanwhile  another  might  be  friendly.  In 
the  Greek  epic,  the  gods  are  partisans,  they  hold  caucuses,  they 
lobby  and  log-roll  for  their  candidates.  The  tacit  admission 
of  a  revealed  code  of  morals  wrought  a  great  change.  The  com- 
plexity and  range  of  passion  is  vastly  increased  when  the  offence 
is  at  once  both  crime  and  sin,  a  wrong  done  against  order  and 
against  conscience  at  the  same  time.  The  relation  of  the  Greek 
tragedy  to  the  higher  powers  is  chiefly  antagonistic,  struggle 
against  an  implacable  destiny,  sublime  struggle,  and  of  heroes, 
but  sure  of  defeat  at  last.  And  that  defeat  is  final.  Grand 
figures  are  those  it  exhibits  to  us,  in  some  respects  unequalled, 
and  in  their  severe  simplicity  they  compare  with  modern 
poetry  as  sculpture  with  painting.  Considered  merely  as  works 
of  art,  these  products  of  the  Greek  imagination  satisfy  our 
highest  conception  of  form.  They  suggest  inevitably  a  feeling 
of  perfect  completeness,  isolation,  and  independence,  of  some- 
thing rounded  and  finished  in  itself.  The  secret  of  those  old 
shapers  died  with  them;  their  wand  is  broken,  their  book  sunk 
deeper  than  ever  plummet  sounded.  The  t>pe  of  their  work  is 
the  Greek  temple,  which  leaves  nothing  to  hope  for  in  unity 

*  Dante  is  an  ancient  in  this  respect  as  in  many  others,  but  the  difference  is 
that  with  him  society  is  something  divinely  ordained.  He  follows  Aristotle  pretty 
closely,  but  on  his  own  theory  crime  and  sin  are  identical.  [Author's  note.J .  , 


DANTE  ^  541 

and  perfection  of  design,  in  harmony  and  subordination  of 
parts,  and  in  entireness  of  impression.  But  in  this  aesthetic 
completeness  it  ends.  It  rests  solidly  and  complacently  on  the 
earth,  and  the  mind  rests  there  with  it. 

Now  the  Christian  idea  has  to  do  with  the  himian  soul, 
which  Christianity  may  be  almost  said  to  have  invented.  While 
all  Paganism  represents  a  few  preeminent  families,  the  founders 
of  dynasties  or  ancestors  of  races,  as  of  kin  with  the  gods, 
Christianity  makes  every  pedigree  end  in  Deity,  makes  mon- 
arch and  slave  the  children  of  one  God.  Its  heroes  struggle  not 
against,  but  upward  and  onward  toward,  the  higher  powers  who 
are  always  on  their  side.  Its  highest  conception  of  beauty  is 
not  aesthetic,  but  moral.  With  it  prosperity  and  adversity 
have  exchanged  meanings.  It  finds  enemies  in  those  worldly 
good-fortunes  where  Pagan  and  even  Hebrew  literature  saw 
the  highest  blessing,  and  invincible  allies  in  sorrow,  poverty, 
himfibleness  of  station,  where  the  former  world  recognized  only 
implacable  foes.  WTiile  it  utterly  abolished  all  boundary  lines 
of  race  or  country  and  made  mankind  unitary,  its  hero  is 
always  the  individual  man  whoever  and  wherever  he  may  be. 
Above  all,  an  entirely  new  conception  of  the  Infinite  and  of 
man's  relation  to  it  came  in  with  Christianity.  That,  and  not 
the  finite,  is  always  the  background,  consciously  or  not.  It 
changed  the  scene  of  the  last  act  of  every  drama  to  the  next 
world.  Endless  aspiration  of  all  the  faculties  became  thus  the 
ideal  of  Christian  life,  and  to  express  it  more  or  less  perfectly 
the  ideal  of  essentially  Christian  art.  It  was  this  which  the 
Middle  Ages  instinctively  typified  in  the  Gothic  cathedral,  — 
no  accidental  growth,  but  the  visible  s)niibol  of  an  inward 
faith,  —  which  soars  forever  upward,  and  yearns  toward 
heaven  like  a  martyr-flame  suddenly  turned  to  stone. 

It  is  not  without  significance  that  Goethe,  who,  like  Dante, 
also  absorbed  and  represented  the  tendency  and  spirit  of  his 
age,  should,  during  his  youth  and  while  Europe  was  alive  with 
the  moral  and  intellectual  longing  which  preluded  the  French 
Revolution,  have  loved  the  Gothic  architecture.  It  is  no  less 
significant  that  in  the  period  of  reaction  toward  more  positive 
thought  which  followed,  he  should  have  preferred  the  Greek. 
His  greatest  poem,  conceived  during  the  former  era,  is  Gothic. 
Dante,  endeavoring  to  conform  himself  to  literary  tradition, 


54^  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

began  to  write  the  Divina  Commedia  in  Latin,  and  had  elabo- 
rated several  cantos  of  it  in  that  dead  and  intractable  material. 
But  that  poetic  instinct,  which  is  never  the  instinct  of  an  indi- 
vidual, but  of  his  age,  could  not  so  be  satisfied,  and  leaving  the 
classic  structure  he  had  begun  to  stand  as  a  monument  of 
failure,  he  completed  his  work  in  ItaHan.  Instead  of  endeavor- 
ing to  manufacture  a  great  poem  out  of  what  was  foreign  and 
artificial,  he  let  the  poem  make  itself  out  of  him.  The  epic 
which  he  wished  to  write  in  the  universal  language  of  scholars, 
and  which  might  have  had  its  ten  lines  in  the  history  of  litera- 
ture, would  sing  itself  in  provincial  Tuscan,  and  turns  out  to  be 
written  in  the  universal  dialect  of  mankind.  Thus  all  great 
poets  have  been  in  a  certain  sense  provincial,  —  Homer, 
Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Burns,  Scott  in  the  Heart  of 
Midlothian  and  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  —  because  the  office  of 
the  poet  is  always  vicarious,  because  nothing  that  has  not  been 
living  experience  can  become  Hving  expression,  because  the 
collective  thought,  the  faith,  the  desire  of  a  nation  or  a  race, 
is  the  cumulative  result  of  many  ages,  is  something  organic, 
and  is  wiser  and  stronger  than  any  single  person,  and  will  make 
a  great  statesman  or  a  great  poet  out  of  any  man  who  can 
entirely  surrender  himself  to  it. 

As  the  Gothic  cathedral,  then,  is  the  type  of  the  Christian 
idea,  so  is  it  also  of  Dante's  poem.  And  as  that  in  its  artistic 
unity  is  but  the  completed  thought  of  a  single  architect,  which 
yet  could  never  have  been  realized  except  out  of  the  faith  and 
by  the  contributions  of  an  entire  people,  whose  beliefs  and 
superstitions,  whose  imagination  and  fancy,  find  expression  in 
its  statues  and  its  carvings,  its  calm  saints  and  martyrs  now  at 
rest  forever  in  the  seclusion  of  their  canopied  niches,  and  its 
wanton  grotesques  thrusting  themselves  forth  from  every 
pinnacle  and  gargoyle,  so  in  Dante's  poem,  while  it  is  as  per- 
sonal and  peculiar  as  if  it  were  his  private  journal  and  auto- 
biography, we  can  yet  read  the  diary  and  the  autobiography 
of  the  thirteenth  century  and  of  the  Italian  people.  Complete 
and  harmonious  in  design  as  his  work  is,  it  is  yet  no  Pagan 
temple  enshrining  a  type  of  the  human  made  divine  by  triumph 
of  corporeal  beauty;  it  is  not  a  private  chapel  housing  a  single 
saint  and  dedicate  to  one  chosen  bloom  of  Christian  piety  or 
devotion;  it  is  truly  a  cathedral,  over  whose  high  altar  hangs 


DANTE  543 

the  emblem  of  suffering,  of  the  Divine  made  human  to  teach 
the  beauty  of  adversity,  the  eternal  presence  of  the  spiritual, 
not  overhanging  and  threatening,  but  informing  and  sustain- 
ing the  material.  In  this  cathedral  of  Dante's  there  are  side- 
chapels  as  is  fit,  with  altars  to  all  Christian  virtues  and  perfec- 
tions; but  the  great  impression  of  its  leading  thought  is  that  of 
aspiration,  forever  and  e.ver.  In  the  three  divisions  of  the 
poem  we  may  trace  something  more  than  a  fancied  analogy 
with  a  Christian  basilica.  There  is  first  the  ethnic  forecourt, 
then  the  purgatorial  middle  space,  and  last  the  holy  of  holies 
dedicated  to  the  eternal  presence  of  the  mediatorial  God.^ 

Perhaps  it  seems  little  to  say  that  Dante  was  the  first  great 
poet  who  ever  made  a  poem  wholly  out  of  himself,  but,  rightly 
looked  at,  it  implies  a  wonderful  self-reliance  and  originality 
in  his  genius.  His  is  the  first  keel  that  ever  ventured  into  the 
silent  sea  of  human  consciousness  to  find  a  new  world  of  poetry. 
"L'  acqua  ch'  io  prendo  giammai  non  si  corse."  * 

He  discovered  that  not  only  the  story  of  some  heroic  person, 
but  that  of  any  man  might  be  epical;  that  the  way  to  heaven 
was  not  outside  the  world,  but  through  it.  Living  at  a  time 
when  the  end  of  the  world  was  still  looked  for  as  imminent,* 
he  believed  that  the  second  coming  of  the  Lord  was  to  take 
place  on  no  more  conspicuous  stage  than  the  soul  of  man;  that 
his  kingdom  would  be  established  in  the  surrendered  will.  A 
poem,  the  precious  distillation  of  such  a  character  and  such  a 
Hfe  as  his  through  all  those  sorrowing  but  imdespondent  years, 
must  have  a  meaning  in  it  which  few  men  have  meaning  enough 
in  themselves  wholly  to  penetrate.  That  its  allegorical  form 
belongs  to  a  past  fashion,  with  which  the  modern  mind  has 
little  sympathy,  we  should  no  more  think  of  denying  than  of 

^  "The  poem  consists  of  three  parts,  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise.  ...  In 
the  form  of  the  verse  (triple  rhyme)  we  may  find  an  emblem  of  the  Trinity,  and 
in  the  three  divisions,  of  the  threefold  state  of  man,  sin,  grace,  and  beatitude. 
Symbolic  meanings  reveal  themselves,  or  make  themselves  suspected,  every- 
where, as  in  the  architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages."  (Lowell,  "Dante,"  p.  158.) 
2  ["The  water  which  I  take  was  never  coursed  before."]  Paradiso,  n,  7. 
Lucretius  makes  the  same  boast:  — 

"Avia  Pieridum  peragro  loca  nullius  ante 
Trita  solo." 
[Author's  note.] 
•  Convito,  Tr.  n,  c.  15.  [Author's  note.] 


544  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

whitewashing  a  fresco  of  Giotto.  But  we  may  take  it  as  we 
may  nature,  which  is  also  full  of  double  meanings,  either  as 
picture  or  as  parable,  either  for  the  simple  deHght  of  its  beauty 
or  as  a  shadow  of  the  spiritual  world.  We  may  take  it  as  we 
may  history,  either  for  its  picturesqueness  or  its  moral,  either 
for  the  variety  of  its  figures,  or  as  a  witness  to  that  perpetual 
presence  of  God  in  his  creation  of, which  Dante  was  so  pro- 
foundly sensible.  He  had  seen  and  suffered  much,  but  it  is 
only  to  the  man  who  is  himself  of  value  that  experience  is  valu- 
able. He  had  not  looked  on  man  and  nature  as  most  of  us  do, 
with  less  interest  than  into  the  columns  of  our  daily  newspaper. 
He  saw  in  them  the  latest  authentic  news  of  the  God  who  made 
them,  for  he  carried  everywhere  that  vision  washed  clear  with 
tears  which  detects  the  meaning  under  the  mask,  and,  beneath 
the  casual  and  transitory,  the  eternal  keeping  its  sleepless 
watch.  The  secret  of  Dante's  power  is  not  far  to  seek.  Who- 
ever can  express  himself  with  the  full  force  of  unconscious 
sincerity  will  be  found  to  have  uttered  something  ideal  and 
universal.  Dante  intended  a  didactic  poem,  but  the  most  pic- 
turesque of  poets  could  not  escape  his  genius,  and  his  sermon 
sings  and  glows  and  charms  in  a  manner  that  surprises  more 
at  the  fiftieth  reading  than  the  first,  such  variety  of  freshness 
is  in  imagination. 

There  are  no  doubt  in  the  Divina  Commedia  (regarded  merely 
as  poetry)  sandy  spaces  enough  both  of  physics  and  meta- 
physics, but  with  every  deduction  Dante  remains  the  first  of 
descriptive  as  well  as  moral  poets.  His  verse  is  as  various  as 
the  feeHng  it  conveys;  now  it  has  the  terseness  and  edge  of 
steel,  and  now  palpitates  with  iridescent  softness  like  the 
breast  of  a  dove.  In  vividness  he  is  without  a  rival.  He  drags 
back  by  its  tangled  locks  the  unwilling  head  of  some  petty 
traitor  of  an  ItaHan  provincial  town,  lets  the  fire  glare  on  the 
sullen  face  for  a  moment,  and  it  sears  itself  into  the  memory 
forever.  He  shows  us  an  angel  glowing  with  that  love  of  God 
which  makes  him  a  star  even  amid  the  glory  of  heaven,  and 
the  holy  shape  keeps  lifelong  watch  in  our  fantasy,  constant 
as  a  sentinel.  He  has  the  skill  of  conveying  impressions  indi- 
rectly. In  the  gloom  of  hell  his  bodily  presence  is  revealed  by 
his  stirring  something,  on  the  mount  of  expiation  by  casting  a 
shadow.   Would  he  have  us  feel  the  brightness  of  an  angel? 


DANTE  545 

He  makes  him  whiten  afar  through  the  smoke  like  a  dawn/  or, 
walking  straight  toward  the  setting  sun,  he  finds  his  eyes  sud- 
denly unable  to  withstand  a  greater  splendor  against  which  his 
hand  is  unavaiUng  to  shield  him.  Even  its  reflected  light,  then, 
is  brighter  than  the  direct  ray  of  the  sun.^  And  how  much  more 
keenly  do  we  feel  the  parched  Ups  of  Master  Adam  for  those 
rivulets  of  the  Casentino  which  run  down  into  the  Amo,  "mak- 
ing their  channels  cool  and  soft"!  His  comparisons  are  as 
fresh,  as  simple,  and  as  directly  from  nature  as  those  of 
Homer.  ^  Sometimes  they  show  a  more  subtle  observation, 
as  where  he  compares  the  stooping  of  Antaeus  over  him  to  the 
leaning  tower  of  Carisenda,  to  which  the  clouds,  flying  in  an 
opposite  direction  to  its  incHnation,  give  away  their  motion.'* 
His  suggestions  of  individuaUty,  too,  from  attitude  or  speech, 
as  in  Farinata,  Sordello,  or  Pia,^  give  in  a  hint  what  is  worth 
acres  of  so-called  character-painting.  In  straightforward  pa- 
thos, the  single  and  sufficient  thrust  of  phrase,  he  has  no 
competitor.  He  is  too  sternly  touched  to  be  effusive  and 
tearful : 

"lo  non  piangeva,  si  dentro  impietrai."  * 
His  is  always  the  true  coin  of  speech, 

"Si  lucida  e  si  tonda 
Che  nel  suo  conio  nulla  ci  s'  inforsa,"^ 

and  never  the  highly  ornamental  promise  to  pay,  token  of 
insolvency. 

*  Purgatorio,  xvi,  142.  Here  is  Milton's  "  Far  off  his  coining  shone."  [Author's 
note.] 

^  Purgatorio,  xv,  7,  et  seq.  [Author's  note.] 

'  See,  for  example,  Inferno,  xvn,  127-32;  ib.,  xxiv,  7-12;  Purgatorio,  n,  124- 
29;  z6.,  m,  79-84;  ih.,  xxvn,  76-81;  Paradiso,  xix,  91-93;  ib.,  xxi,  34-39;  ib., 
xxm,  1-9.   [Author's  note.] 

*  Inferno,  xxxi,  136-38. 

"And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars, 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars." 

(Coleridge,  "  Dejection,  an  Ode.") 
See  also  the  comparison  of  the  dimness  of  the  faces  seen  around  him  in  Paradise 
to  "a  pearl  on  a  white  forehead."   (Paradiso,  in,  14.)   [Author's  note.] 
5  Inferno,  x,  35-41;  Purgatorio,  vi,  61-66;  ib.,  x,  133.  [Author's  note.] 
^  ["I  did  not  weep :  so  strong  grew  I  within"  {Inferno,  xxxiii,  49).]     For 
example,  Cavalcanti's  Come  dicesti  egli  ebbe?    (Inferno,  x,  67,  68.)     Ansel- 
muccio's  Tu  giiardi  si,  padre,  cite  hat?   (Inferno,  xxxin,  51.)      [Author's note.] 
^  "  So  bright  and  round  that  there  is  nothing  dubious  in  its  coining."  (Para- 
diso, XXIV,  86-87.) 


546  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

No  doubt  it  is  primarily  by  his  poetic  qualities  that  a  poet 
must  be  judged,  for  it  is  by  these,  if  by  anything,  that  he  is  to 
maintain  his  place  in  literature.  And  he  must  be  judged  by 
them  absolutely,  with  reference,  that  is,  to  the  highest  stand- 
ard, and  not  relatively  to  the  fashions  and  opportunities  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lived.  Yet  these  considerations  must  fairly 
enter  into  our  decision  of  another  side  of  the  question,  and  one 
that  has  much  to  do  with  the  true  quality  of  the  man,  with  his 
character  as  distinguished  from  his  talent,  and  therefore  with 
how  much  he  will  influence  men  as  well  as  delight  them.  We 
may  reckon  up  pretty  exactly  a  man's  advantages  and  defects 
as  an  artist;  these  he  has  in  common  with  others,  and  they  are 
to  be  measured  by  a  recognized  standard;  but  there  is  some- 
thing in  his  genius  that  is  incalculable.  It  would  be  hard  to 
define  the  causes  of  the  difference  of  impression  made  upon  us 
respectively  by  two  such  men  as  ^schylus  and  Euripides,  but 
we  feel  profoundly  that  the  latter,  though  in  some  respects  a 
better  dramatist,  was  an  infinitely  Hghter  weight.  ^Eschylus 
stirs  something  in  us  far  deeper  than  the  sources  of  mere  pleas- 
urable excitement.  The  man  behind  the  verse  is  far  greater 
than  the  verse  itself,  and  the  impulse  he  gives  to  what  is  deep- 
est and  most  sacred  in  us,  though  we  cannot  always  explain  it, 
is  none  the  less  real  and  lasting.  Some  men  always  seem  to 
remain  outside  their  work;  others  make  their  individuality  felt 
in  every  part  of  it;  their  very  life  \ibrates  in  every  verse,  and 
we  do  not  wonder  that  it  has  ''made  them  lean  for  many  years." 
The  virtue  that  has  gone  out  of  them  abides  in  what  they  do. 
The  book  such  a  man  makes  is  indeed,  as  Milton  called  it,  "  the 
precious  lifeblood  of  a  master  spirit."  Theirs  is  a  true  immor- 
tality, for  it  is  their  soul,  and  not  their  talent,  that  survives  in 
their  work.  Dante's  concise  forthrightness  of  phrase,  which  to 
that  of  most  other  poets  is  as  a  stab^  to  a  blow  with  a  cudgel, 
the  vigor  of  his  thought,  the  beauty  of  his  images,  the  refine- 
ment of  his  conception  of  spiritual  things,  are  marvellous  if  we 
compare  him  with  his  age  and  its  best  achievement.  But  it  is 
for  his  power  of  inspiring  and  sustaining,  it  is  because  they  find 
in  him  a  spur  to  noble  aims,  a  secure  refuge  in  that  defeat  which 
the  present  always  seems,  that  they  prize  Dante  who  know 

*  To  the  "bestiality"  of  certain  arguments  Dante  says,  "one  would  wish  to 
reply,  not  with  words,  but  with  a  knife."  {Convito,  Tr.  iv,  c.  14.)  [Author's  note.] 


DANTE  547 

and  love  him  best.  He  is  not  merely  a  great  poet,  but  an  influ- 
ence, part  of  the  soul's  resources  in  time  of  trouble.  From  him 
she  learns  that,  ''married  to  the  truth,  she  is  a  mistress,  but 
otherwise  a  slave  shut  out  of  all  liberty."^ 

All  great  poets  have  their  message  to  deliver  us,  from  some- 
thing higher  than  they.  We  venture  on  no  unworthy  compari- 
son between  him  who  reveals  to  us  the  beauty  of  this  world's 
love  and  the  grandeur  of  this  world's  passion  and  him  who 
shows  that  love  of  God  is  the  fruit  whereof  all  other  loves  are 
but  the  beautiful  and  fleeting  blossom,  that  the  passions  are 
yet  sublimer  objects  of  contemplation,  when,  subdued  by  the 
will,  they  become  patience  in  suffering  and  perseverance  in  the 
upward  path.  But  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  if  Shakespeare 
be  the  most  comprehensive  intellect,  so  Dante  is  the  highest 
spiritual  nature  that  has  expressed  itself  in  rhythmical  form. 
Had  he  merely  made  us  feel  how  petty  the  ambitions,  sorrows, 
and  vexations  of  earth  appear  when  looked  down  on  from  the 
heights  of  our  own  character  and  the  seclusion  of  our  own 
genius,  or  from  the  region  where  we  commune  with  God,  he 
had  done  much: 

"I  with  my  sight  returned  through  one  and  all 
The  sevenfold  spheres,  and  I  beheld  this  globe 
Such  that  I  smiled  at  its  ignoble  semblance."  ' 

But  he  has  done  far  more;  he  has  shown  us  the  way  by  which 
that  country  far  beyond  the  stars  may  be  reached,  may  become 
the  habitual  dwelling-place  and  fortress  of  our  nature,  instead 
of  being  the  object  of  its  vague  aspiration  in  moments  of  indo- 
lence. At  the  Round  Table  of  King  Arthur  there  was  left  always 
one  seat  empty  for  him  who  should  accompflsh  the  adventure 
of  the  Holy  Grail.  It  was  called  the  perilous  seat  because  of 
the  dangers  he  must  encounter  who  would  win  it.  In  the  com- 
pany of  the  epic  poets  there  was  a  place  left  for  whoever  should 
embody  the  Christian  idea  of  a  triumphant  life,  outwardly  all 
defeat,  inwardly  victorious,  who  should  make  us  partakers  of 
that  cup  of  sorrow  in  which  all  are  commtmicants  with  Christ. 
He  who  should  do  this  would  indeed  achieve  the  perilous  seat, 
for  he  must  combine  poesy  with  doctrine  in  such  cunning  wise 
that  the  one  lose  not  its  beauty  nor  the  other  its  severity,  — 

1  Convito,  Tr.  iv,  c.  2.  [Author's  note.l 

'  Paradiso,  xxn,  132-35;  ib.,  xxvn,  no.  [Author's  note.] 


548  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

and  Dante  has  done  it.  As  he  takes  possession  of  it  we  seem  to 
hear  the  cry  he  himself  heard  when  Virgil  rejoined  the  company 
of  great  singers, 

"All  honor  to  the  loftiest  of  poets!" 


DEMOCRACY! 

He  must  be  a  bom  leader  or  misleader  of  men,  or  must  have 
been  sent  into  the  world  unfurnished  with  that  modulating 
and  restraining  balance-wheel  which  we  call  a  sense  of  humor, 
who,  in  old  age,  has  as  strong  a  confidence  in  his  opinions  and 
in  the  necessity  of  bringing  the  universe  into  conformity  with 
them  as  he  had  in  youth.  In  a  world  the  very  condition  of 
whose  being  is  that  it  should  be  in  perpetual  flux,  where  all 
seems  mirage,  and  the  one  abiding  thing  is  the  effort  to  dis- 
tinguish realities  from  appearances,  the  elderly  man  must  be 
indeed  of  a  singularly  tough  and  valid  fibre  who  is  certain  that 
he  has  any  clarified  residuum  of  experience,  any  assured  verdict 
of  reflection,  that  deserves  to  be  called  an  opinion,  or  who, 
even  if  he  had,  feels  that  he  is  justified  in  holding  mankind  by 
the  button  while  he  is  expounding  it.  And  in  a  world  of  daily 
—  nay,  almost  hourly  —  journalism,  where  every  clever  man, 
every  man  who  thinks  himself  clever,  or  whom  anybody  else 
thinks  clever,  is  called  upon  to  deliver  his  judgment  point- 
blank  and  at  the  word  of  command  on  every  conceivable  sub- 
ject of  human  thought,  or,  on  what  sometimes  seems  to  him 
very  much  the  same  thing,  on  every  inconceiva*ble  display  of 
human  want  of  thought,  there  is  such  a  spendthrift  waste  of  all 
those  commonplaces  which  furnish  the  permitted  staple  of 
public  discourse  that  there  is  little  chance  of  beguiling  a  new 

^  "His  discourse  on  democracy  at  Birmingham,  in  October,  1884,  was  not 
only  an  event,  but  an  event  without  a  precedent.  He  was  the  minister  of  the 
American  republic  to  the  British  monarchy,  and,  as  that  minister,  publicly  to 
declare  in  England  the  most  radical  democratic  principles  as  the  ultimate  logical 
result  of  the  British  Constitution,  and  to  do  it  with  a  temper,  an  urbanity,  a 
moderation,  a  precision  of  statement,  and  a  courteous  grace  of  humor  which 
charmed  doubt  into  acquiescence  and  amazement  into  unfeigned  admiration  and 
acknowledgment  of  a  great  service  to  political  thought  greatly  done  —  this  was 
an  event  unknown  in  the  annals  of  diplomacy,  and  this  is  what  Lowell  did  at 
Birmingham,"  (George  William  Curtis,  Address  in  Lowell's  honor  before  the 
Brooklyn  Institute.)  To-day,  however,  Lowell's  principles  would  scarcely  be 
r^arded  as  "  most  radical." 


DEMOCRACY  549 

tune  out  of  the  one-stringed  instrument  on  which  we  have  been 
thrumming  so  long.  In  this  desperate  necessity  one  is  often 
tempted  to  think  that,  if  all  the  words  of  the  dictionary  were 
tumbled  down  in  a  heap  and  then  all  those  fortuitous  juxtapo- 
sitions and  combinations  that  made  tolerable  sense  were  picked 
out  and  pieced  together,  we  might  find  among  them  some 
poignant  suggestions  towards  novelty  of  thought  or  expression. 
But,  alas!  it  is  only  the  great  poets  who  seem  to  have  this  un- 
soKcited  profusion  of  unexpected  and  incalculable  phrase,  this 
infijiite  variety  of  topic.  For  everybody  else  everything  has 
been  said  before,  and  said  over  again  after.  He  who  has  read 
his  Aristotle  will  be  apt  to  think  that  observation  has  on  most 
points  of  general  appHcability  said  its  last  word,  and  he  who 
has  mounted  the  tower  of  Plato  to  look  abroad  from  it  will 
never  hope  to  climb  another  with  so  lofty  a  vantage  of  specu- 
lation. Where  it  is  so  simple  if  not  so  easy  a  thing  to  hold  one's 
peace,  why  add  to  the  general  confusion  of  tongues?  There  is 
something  disheartening,  too,  in  being  expected  to  fill  up  not 
less  than  a  certain  measure  of  time,  as  if  the  mind  were  an 
hour-glass,  that  need  only  be  shaken  and  set  on  one  end  or  the 
other,  as  the  case  may  be,  to  run  its  allotted  sixty  minutes  w^th 
decorous  exactitude.  I  recollect  being  once  told  by  the  late 
eminent  naturalist,  Agassiz,  that  when  he  was  to  deliver  his 
first  lecture  as  professor  (at  Zurich,  I  believe)  he  had  grave 
doubts  of  his  ability  to  occupy  the  prescribed  three  quarters 
of  an  hour.  He  was  speaking  without  notes,  and  glancing 
anxiously  from  time  to  time  at  the  watch  that  lay  before  him 
on  the  desk.  "When  I  had  spoken  a  half  hour,"  he  said,  ^'1 
had  told  them  everything  I  knew  in  the  world,  everything! 
Then  I  began  to  repeat  myself,"  he  added,  roguishly,  ''and  I 
have  done  nothing  else  ever  since."  Beneath  the  humorous 
exaggeration  of  the  story  I  seemed  to  see  the  face  of  a  very 
serious  and  improving  moral.  And  yet  if  one  were  to  say  only 
what  he  had  to  say  and  then  stopped,  his  audience  would  feel 
defrauded  of  their  honest  measure.  Let  us  take  courage  by  the 
example  of  the  French,  whose  exportation  of  Bordeaux  wines 
increases  as  the  area  of  their  land  in  vineyards  is  diminished. 
To  me,  somewhat  hopelessly  revolving  these  things,  the  un- 
delayable year  has  rolled  round,  and  I  find  myself  called  upon 
to  say  something  in  this  place,  where  so  many  wiser  men  have 


550  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

spoken  before  me.  Precluded,  in  my  quality  of  national  guest, 
by  motives  of  taste  and  discretion,  from  dealing  with  any 
question  of  immediate  and  domestic  concern,  it  seemed  to  me 
wisest,  or  at  any  rate  most  prudent,  to  choose  a  topic  of  com- 
paratively abstract  interest,  and  to  ask  your  indulgence  for  a 
few  somewhat  generalized  remarks  on  a  matter  concerning 
which  I  had  some  experimental  knowledge,  derived  from  the 
use  of  such  eyes  and  ears  as  Nature  had  been  pleased  to  endow 
me  withal,  and  such  report  as  I  had  been  able  to  win  from  them. 
The  subject  which  most  readily  suggested  itself  was  the  spirit 
and  the  working  of  those  conceptions  of  life  and  polity  which 
are  lumped  together,  whether  for  reproach  or  commendation, 
under  the  name  of  Democracy.  By  temperament  and  educa- 
tion of  a  conservative  turn,  I  saw  the  last  years  of  that  quaint 
Arcadia  which  French  travellers  saw  with  delighted  amaze- 
ment a  century  ago,  and  have  watched  the  change  (to  me  a  sad 
one)  from  an  agricultural  to  a  proletary  population.  The  testi- 
mony of  Balaam^  should  carry  some  conviction.  I  have  grown 
to  manhood  and  am  now  growing  old  with  the  growth  of  this 
system  of  government  in  my  native  land;  have  watched  its 
advances,  or  what  some  would  call  its  encroachments,  gradual 
and  irresistible  as  those  of  a  glacier;  have  been  an  ear- witness 
to  the  forebodings  of  wise  and  good  and  timid  men,  and  have 
lived  to  see  those  forebodings  belied  by  the  course  of  events, 
which  is  apt  to  show  itself  humorously  careless  of  the  reputa- 
tion of  prophets.  I  recollect  hearing  a  sagacious  old  gentleman 
say  in  1840  that  the  doing  away  with  the  property  qualification 
for  suffrage  twenty  years  before  had  been  the  ruin  of  the  State 
of  Massachusetts;  that  it  had  put  public  credit  and  private 
estate  alike  at  the  mercy  of  demagogues.  I  Hved  to  see  that 
Commonwealth  twenty  odd  years  later  paying  the  interest  on 
her  bonds  in  gold,  though  it  cost  her  sometimes  nearly  three 
for  one  to  keep  her  faith,  and  that  while  suffering  an  unparal- 
leled drain  of  men  and  treasure  in  helping  to  sustain  the  unity 
and  self-respect  of  the  nation. 

If  universal  suffrage  has  worked  ill  in  our  larger  cities,  as  it 

certainly  has,  this  has  been  mainly  because  the  hands  that 

wielded  it  were  untrained  to  its  use.   There  the  election  of  a 

majority  of  the  trustees  of  the  public  money  is  controlled  by  the 

*  Numbers  xxn-xxiv. 


DEMOCRACY  551 

most  ignorant  and  vicious  of  a  population  which  has  come  to 
us  from  abroad,  wholly  unpracticed  in  self-government  and 
incapable  of  assimilation  by  American  habits  and  methods. 
But  the  finances  of  our  towns,  where  the  native  tradition  is 
still  dominant  and  whose  affairs  are  discussed  and  settled  in  a 
public  assembly  of  the  people,  have  been  in  general  honestly 
and  prudently  administered.  Even  in  manufacturing  towns, 
where  a  majority  of  the  voters  live  by  their  daily  wages,  it  is 
not  so  often  the  recklessness  as  the  moderation  of  public  ex- 
penditure that  surprises  an  old-fashioned  observer.  "The 
beggar  is  in  the  saddle  at  last,"  cries  Proverbial  Wisdom.^ 
"Why,  in  the  name  of  all  former  experience,  does  n't  he  ride  to 
the  Devil?"  Because  in  the  very  act  of  mounting  he  ceased  to 
be  a  beggar  and  became  part  owner  of  the  piece  of  property  he 
bestrides.  The  last  thing  we  need  be  anxious  about  is  property. 
It  always  has  friends  or  the  means  of  making  them.  If  riches 
have  wings  to  fly  away  from  their  owner,  they  have  wings  also 
to  escape  danger. 

I  hear  America  sometimes  playfully  accused  of  sending  you 
all  your  storms,  and  am  in  the  habit  of  parrying  the  charge  by 
alleging  that  we  are  enabled  to  do  this  because,  in  virtue  of  our 
protective  system,  we  can  afford  to  make  better  bad  weather 
than  anybody  else.  And  what  wiser  use  could  we  make  of  it 
than  to  export  it  in  return  for  the  paupers  which  some  European 
countries  are  good  enough  to  send  over  to  us  who  have  not 
attained  to  the  same  skill  in  the  manufacture  of  them?  But 
bad  weather  is  not  the  worst  thing  that  is  laid  at  our  door.  A 
French  gentleman,  not  long  ago,  forgetting  Burke's  monition 
of  how  unwise  it  is  to  draw  an  indictment  against  a  whole  peo- 
ple, ^  has  charged  us  with  the  responsibiHty  of  whatever  he  finds 
disagreeable  in  the  morals  or  manners  of  his  cotmtrymen.  If 
M.  Zola  or  some  other  competent  witness  would  only  go  into 
the  box  and  tell  us  what  those  morals  and  manners  were  before 
our  example  corrupted  them!  But  I  confess  that  I  find  Httle  to 
interest  and  less  to  edify  me  in  these  international  bandyings 
of  "You're  another." 

I  shall  address  myself  to  a  single  point  only  in  the  long  Ust  of 
offences  of  which  we  are  more  or  less  gravely  accused,  because 

'  "Beggars  mounted  run  their  horses  to  death"  is  a  proverb. 
*  In  his  speech  on  Conciliation  with  the  American  Colonies. 


552  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

that  really  includes  all  the  rest.  It  is  that  we  are  infecting  the 
Old  World  with  what  seems  to  be  thought  the  entirely  new 
disease  of  Democracy.  It  is  generally  people  who  are  in  what 
are  called  easy  circumstances  who  can  afford  the  leisure  to 
treat  themselves  to  a  handsome  complaint,  and  these  experi- 
ence an  immediate  alleviation  when  once  they  have  found  a 
sonorous  Greek  name  to  abuse  it  by.  There  is  something  con- 
solatory also,  something  flattering  to  their  sense  of  personal 
dignity,  and  to  that  conceit  of  singularity  which  is  the  natural 
recoil  from  our  uneasy  consciousness  of  being  commonplace, 
in  thinking  ourselves  victims  of  a  malady  by  which  no  one  had 
ever  suffered  before.  Accordingly  they  find  it  simpler  to  class 
under  one  comprehensive  heading  whatever  they  find  offensive 
to  their  nerves,  their  tastes,  their  interests,  or  what  they  sup- 
pose to  be  their  opinions,  and  christen  it  Democracy,  much  as 
physicians  label  every  obscure  disease  gout,  or  as  cross-grained 
fellows  lay  their  ill-temper  to  the  weather.  But  is  it  really,  a 
new  ailment,  and,  if  it  be,  is  America  answerable  for  it?  Even 
if  she  were,  would  it  account  for  the  phylloxera,  and  hoof-and- 
mouth  disease,  and  bad  harvests,  and  bad  English,  and  the 
German  bands,  and  the  Boers,  and  all  the  other  discomforts 
with  which  these  later  days  have  vexed  the  souls  of  them  that 
go  in  chariots?  Yet  I  have  seen  the  evil  example  of  Democracy 
in  America  cited  as  the  source  and  origin  of  things  quite  as 
heterogeneous  and  quite  as  little  connected  with  it  by  any 
sequence  of  cause  and  effect.  Surely  this  ferment  is  nothing 
new.  It  has  been  at  work  for  centuries,  and  we  are  more  con- 
scious of  it  only  because  in  this  age  of  pubUcity,  where  the 
newspapers  offer  a  rostrum  to  whoever  has  a  grievance,  or 
fancies  that  he  has,  the  bubbles  and  scum  thrown  up  by  it  are 
more  noticeable  on  the  surface  than  in  those  dumb  ages  when 
there  was  a  cover  of  silence  and  suppression  on  the  cauldron. 
Bernardo  Navagero,  speaking  of  the  Provinces  of  Lower 
Austria  in  1546,  tells  us  that  ''in  them  there  are  five  sorts  of 
persons,  Clergy,  Barons,  Nobles,  Burghers,  and  Peasants.  Of 
these  last  no  account  is  made,  because  they  have  no  voice  in  the 
Dietr^ 

*  Below  the  Peasants,  it  should  be  remembered,  was  still  another  even  more 
helpless  class,  the  servile  farm-laborers.  The  same  witness  informs  us  that  of  the 
extraordinary  imposts  the  Peasants  paid  nearly  twice  as  much  in  proportion  to 


DEMOCRACY  553 

Nor  was  it  among  the  people  that  subverave  or  mistaken 
doctrines  had  their  rise.  A  Father  of  the  Church  said  that 
property  was  theft  many  centuries  before  Proudhon  was  bom.^ 
Bourdaloue  reaffirmed  it.  Montesquieu  was  the  inventor  of 
national  workshops,  and  of  the  theory  that  the  State  owed 
every  man  a  living.  Nay,  was  not  the  Church  herself  the  first 
organized  Democracy?  A  few  centuries  ago  the  chief  end  of 
man  was  to  keep  his  soul  alive,  and  then  the  little  kernel  of 
leaven  that  sets  the  gases  at  work  was  religious,  and  produced 
the  Reformation.  Even  in  that,  far-sighted  persons  like  the 
Emperor  Charles  V  saw  the  germ  of  political  and  social  revo- 
lution. Now  that  the  chief  end  of  man  seems  to  have  become 
the  keeping  of  the  body  alive,  and  as  comfortably  alive  as 
possible,  the  leaven  also  has  become  wholly  poHtical  and  social. 
But  there  had  also  been  social  upheavals  before  the  Reforma- 
tion and  contemporaneously  with  it,  especially  among  men  of 
Teutonic  race.  The  Reformation  gave  outlet  and  direction  to 
an  unrest  already  existing.  Formerly  the  immense  majority 
of  men  —  our  brothers  —  knew  only  their  sufferings,  their 
wants,  and  their  desires.  They  are  beginning  now  to  know  their 
opportunity  and  their  power.  All  persons  who  see  deeper  than 
their  plates  are  tather  inclined  to  thank  God  for  it  than  to 
bewail  it,  for  the  sores  of  Lazarus  have  a  poison  in  them  against 
which  Dives  has  no  antidote. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  spectacle  of  a  great  and  pros- 
perous Democracy  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  must  react 
powerfully  on  the  aspirations  and  political  theories  of  men  in 
the  Old  World  who  do  not  find  things  to  their  mind;  but, 
whether  for  good  or  evil,  it  should  not  be  overlooked  that  the 
acorn  from  which  it  sprang  was  ripened  on  the  British  oak. 
Every  successive  swarm  that  has  gone  out  from  this  officina 
gentium^  has,  when  left  to  its  own  instincts  —  may  I  not  call 
them  hereditary  instincts?  —  assumed  a  more  or  less  thor- 
oughly democratic  form.    This  would  seem  to  show,  what  I 

their  estimated  property  as  the  Barons,  Nobles,  and  Burghers  together.  More- 
over, the  upper  classes  were  assessed  at  their  own  valuation,  while  they  arbi- 
trarily fixed  that  of  the  Peasants,  who  had  no  voice.  (Relazioni  degli  Ambasciatori 
Veneti,  serie  i,  tomo  i,  pp.  378,  379,  389.)   [Author's  note.] 

1  The  Father  is  St.  Ambrose.  "Many  centuries"  later,  in  1840,  Proudhon,  a 
French  economist,  published  Qu'  est-ce  que  la  ProprUU? 

'  Workshop  of  the  worid. 


554  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

believe  to  be  the  fact,  that  the  British  Constitution,  under 
whatever  disguises  of  prudence  or  decorum,  is  essentially 
democratic.  England,  indeed,  may  be  called  a  monarchy  with 
democratic  tendencies,  the  United  States  a  democracy  with 
conservative  instincts.  People  are  continually  saying  that 
America  is  in  the  air,  and  I  am  glad  to  think  it  is,  since  this 
means  only  that  a  clearer  conception  of  human  claims  and 
human  duties  is  beginning  to  be  prevalent.  The  discontent 
with  the  existing  order  of  things,  however,  pervaded  the  atmos- 
phere wherever  the  conditions  were  favorable,  long  before 
Columbus,  seeking  the  back  door  of  Asia,  found  himself  knock- 
ing at  the  front  door  of  America.  I  say  wherever  the  conditions 
were  favorable,  for  it  is  certain  that  the  germs  of  disease  do 
not  stick  or  find  a  prosperous  field  for  their  development  and 
noxious  activity  unless  where  the  simplest  sanitary  precau- 
tions have  been  neglected.  "For  this  effect  defective  comes  by 
cause,"  as  Polonius  said  long  ago.^  It  is  only  by  instigation 
of  the  wrongs  of  men  that  what  are  called  the  Rights  of  Man 
become  turbulent  and  dangerous.  It  is  then  only  that  they 
syllogize  unwelcome  truths.  It  is  not  the  insurrections  of 
ignorance  that  are  dangerous,  but  the  revolts  of  intelligence :  — 

"The  wicked  and  the  weak  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion." 

Had  the  governing  classes  in  France  during  the  last  century 
paid  as  much  heed  to  their  proper  business  as  to  their  pleasures 
or  manners,  the  guillotine  need  never  have  severed  that  spinal 
marrow  of  orderly  and  secular  tradition  through  which  in  a 
normally  constituted  state  the  brain  sympathizes  with  the 
extremities  and  sends  will  and  impulsion  thither.  It  is  only 
when  the  reasonable  and  practicable  are  denied  that  men  de- 
mand the  unreasonable  and  impracticable;  only  when  the 
possible  is  made  difficult  that  they  fancy  the  impossible  to  be 
easy.  Fairy  tales  are  made  out  of  the  dreams  of  the  poor.  No; 
the  sentiment  which  lies  at  the  root  of  democracy  is  nothing 
new.  I  am  speaking  always  of  a  sentiment,  a  spirit,  and  not  of 
a  form  of  government;  for  this  was  but  the  outgrowth  of  the 
other  and  not  its  cause.  This  sentiment  is  merely  an  expression 
of  the  natiiral  wish  of  people  to  have  a  hand,  if  need  be  a  con- 

*  Hamlet,  ii,  ii. 


DEMOCRACY  555 

trolling  hand,  in  the  management  of  their  own  affairs.  What  is 
new  is  that  they  are  more  and  more  gaining  that  control,  and 
learning  more  and  more  how  to  be  worthy  of  it.  What  we  used 
to  call  the  tendency  or  drift  —  what  we  are  being  taught  to 
call  more  wisely  the  evolution  of  things  —  has  for  some  time 
been  setting  steadily  in  this  direction.  There  is  no  good  in 
arguing  with  the  inevitable.  The  only  argument  available  with 
an  east  wind  is  to  put  on  your  overcoat.  And  in  this  case,  also, 
the  prudent  will  prepare  themselves  to  encounter  what  they 
cannot  prevent.  Some  people  advise  us  to  put  on  the  brakes, 
as  if  the  movement  of  which  we  are  conscious  were  that  of  a 
railway  train  running  down  an  incline.  But  a  metaphor  is  no 
argument,  though  it  be  sometimes  the  gunpowder  to  drive  one 
home  and  imbed  it  in  the  memory.  Our  disquiet  comes  of  what 
nurses  and  other  experienced  persons  call  growing-pains,  and 
need  not  seriously  alarm  us.  They  are  what  every  generation 
before  us  —  certainly  every  generation  since  the  invention  of 
printing  —  has  gone  through  with  more  or  less  good  fortune. 
To  the  door  of  every  generation  there  comes  a  knocking,  and 
unless  the  household,  like  the  Thane  of  Cawdor^  and  his  wife, 
have  been  doing  some  deed  without  a  name,  they  need  not 
shudder.  It  turns  out  at  worst  to  be  a  poor  relation  who  wishes 
to  come  in  out  of  the  cold.  The  porter  always  grumbles  and  is 
slow  to  open.  *' Who's  there,  in  the  name  of  Beelzebub?"  he 
mutters.  Not  a  change  for  the  better  in  our  human  house- 
keeping has  ever  taken  place  that  wise  and  good  men  have  not 
opposed  it,  —  have  not  prophesied  wdth  the  alderman  that  the 
world  would  wake  up  to  find  its  throat  cut  in  consequence  of  it. 
The  world,  on  the  contrary,  wakes  up,  rubs  its  eyes,  yawns, 
stretches  itself,  and  goes  about  its  business  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Suppression  of  the  slave  trade,  abolition  of  slavery, 
trade  unions,  —  at  all  of  these  excellent  people  shook  their 
heads  despondingly,  and  murmured  "Ichabod."^  But  the 
trade  unions  are  now  debating  instead  of  conspiring,  and  we  all 
read  their  discussions  with  comfort  and  hope,  sure  that  they 
are  learning  the  business  of  citizenship  and  the  difficulties  of 
practical  legislation. 

One  of  the  most  curious  of  these  frenzies  of  exclusion  was  that 
against  the  emancipation  of  the  Jews.  All  share  in  the  govem- 
^  Macbeth,  n,  ii.  ^  i  Samuel,  iv,  21. 


556  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

ment  of  the  world  was  denied  for  centuries  to  perhaps  the 
ablest,  certainly  the  most  tenacious,  race  that  had  ever  Uved 
in  it  —  the  race  to  whom  we  owed  our  religion  and  the  purest 
spiritual  stimulus  and  consolation  to  be  found  in  all  literature 
—  a  race  in  which  ability  seems  as  natural  and  hereditary  as 
the  curve  of  their  noses,  and  whose  blood,  furtively  mingling 
with  the  bluest  bloods  in  Europe,  has  quickened  them  with  its 
own  indomitable  impulsion.  We  drove  them  into  a  corner,  but 
they  had  their  revenge,  as  the  wronged  are  always  sure  to  have 
it  sooner  or  later.  They  made  their  corner  the  counter  and 
banking-house  of  the  world,  and  thence  they  rule  it  and  us 
with  the  ignobler  sceptre  of  finance.  Your  grandfathers  mobbed 
Priestley^  only  that  you  might  set  up  his  statue  and  make 
Birmingham  the  headquarters  of  English  Unitarianism.  We 
hear  it  said  sometimes  that  this  is  an  age  of  transition,  as  if 
that  made  matters  clearer;  but  can  any  one  point  us  to  an  age 
that  was  not?  If  he  could,  he  would  show  us  an  age  of  stagna- 
tion. The  question  for  us,  as  it  has  been  for  all  before  us,  is 
to  make  the  transition  gradual  and  easy,  to  see  that  our  points 
are  right  so  that  the  train  may  not  come  to  grief.  For  we 
should  remember  that  nothing  is  more  natural  for  people  whose 
education  has  been  neglected  than  to  spell  evolution  with  an 
initial  *V."  A  great  man  struggling  with  the  storms  of  fate  has 
been  called  a  sublime  spectacle;  but  surely  a  great  man  wrest- 
ling with  these  new  forces  that  have  come  into  the  world,  mas- 
tering them  and  controlling  them  to  beneficent  ends,  would  be 
a  yet  sublimer.  Here  is  not  a  danger,  and  if  there  were  it  would 
be  only  a  better  school  of  manhood,  a  nobler  scope  for  ambition. 
I  have  hinted  that  what  people  are  afraid  of  in  democracy  is 
less  the  thing  itself  than  what  they  conceive  to  be  its  necessary 
adjuncts  and  consequences.  It  is  supposed  to  reduce  all  man- 
kind to  a  dead  level  of  mediocrity  in  character  and  culture,  to 
vulgarize  men's  conceptions  of  life,  and  therefore  their  code  of 
morals,  manners,  and  conduct  —  to  endanger  the  rights  of 
property  and  possession.  But  I  believe  that  the  real  gravamen 
of  the  charges  Hes  in  the  habit  it  has  of  making  itself  generally 
disagreeable  by  asking  the  Powers  that  Be  at  the  most  incon- 
venient moment  whether  they  are  the  powers  that  ought  to  be. 

*  Joseph  Priestley  (i 733-1804),  an  English  Dissenting  minister,  noted  as  the 
discoverer  of  oxygen. 


DEMOCRACY  '557 

If  the  powers  that  be  are  in  a  condition  to  give  a  satisfactory- 
answer  to  this  inevitable  question,  they  need  feel  in  no  way 
discomfited  by  it. 

Few  people  take  the  trouble  of  trying  to  find  out  what  de- 
mocracy really  is.  Yet  this  would  be  a  great  help,  for  it  is  our 
lawless  and  uncertain  thoughts,  it  is  the  indefiniteness  of  our 
impressions,  that  fill  darkness,  whether  mental  or  physical, 
with  spectres  and  hobgoblins.  Democracy  is  nothing  more  than 
an  experiment  in  government,  more  likely  to  succeed  in  a  new 
soil,  but  likely  to  be  tried  in  all  soils,  which  must  stand  or  fall 
on  its  own  merits  as  others  have  done  before  it.  For  there  is 
no  trick  of  perpetual  motion  in  poHtics  any  more  than  in 
mechanics.  President  Lincoln  defined  democracy  to  be  "the 
government  of  the  people  by  the  people  for  the  people."  This 
is  a  sufiiciently  compact  statement  of  it  as  a  poKtical  arrange- 
ment. Theodore  Parker  said  that  ''Democracy  meant  not 
'I'm  as  good  as  you  are,'  but  'You're  as  good  as  I  am.'"  And 
this  is  the  ethical  conception  of  it,  necessary  as  a  complement 
of  the  other;  a  conception  which,  could  it  be  made  actual  and 
practical,  would  easily  solve  all  the  riddles  that  the  old  sphinx 
of  political  and  social  economy  who  sits  by  the  roadside  has 
been  proposing  to  mankind  from  the  beginning,  and  which 
mankind  have  shown  such  a  singular  talent  for  answering 
wrongly.  In  this  sense  Christ  was  the  first  true  democrat  that 
ever  breathed,  as  the  old  dramatist  Dekker  said  he  was  the 
first  true  gentleman.  The  characters  may  be  easily  doubled, 
so  strong  is  the  likeness  between  them.  A  beautiful  and  pro- 
found parable  of  the  Persian  poet  Jellaladeen  tells  us  that 
"One  knocked  at  the  Beloved's  door,  and  a  voice  asked  from 
within  'Who  is  there?'  and  he  answered  'It  is  I.'  Then  the 
voice  said,  'This  house  will  not  hold  me  and  thee';  and  the 
door  was  not  opened.  Then  went  the  lover  into  the  desert 
and  fasted  and  prayed  in  solitude,  and  after  a  year  he  re- 
turned and  knocked  again  at  the  door;  and  again  the  voice 
asked  'Who  is  there?'  and  he  said  'It  is  thyself;  and  the 
door  was  opened  to  him."  But  that  is  idealism,  you  will  say, 
and  this  is  an  only  too  practical  world.  I  grant  it;  but  I  am 
one  of  those  who  believe  that  the  real  will  never  find  an  irre- 
movable basis  till  it  rests  on  the  ideal.  It  used  to  be  thought 
that  a  democracy  was  possible  only  in  a  small  territory,  and 


5S8  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

this  is  doubtless  true  of  a  democracy  strictly  defined,  for  in 
such  all  the  citizens  decide  directly  upon  every  question  of 
public  concern  in  a  general  assembly.  An  example  still  sur- 
vives in  the  tiny  Swiss  canton  of  Appenzell.  But  this  imme- 
diate intervention  of  the  people  in  their  own  affairs  is  not  of 
the  essence  of  democracy;  it  is  not  necessary,  nor  indeed,  in 
most  cases,  practicable.  Democracies  to  which  Mr.  Lincoln's 
definition  would  fairly  enough  apply  have  existed,  and  now 
exist,  in  which,  though  the  supreme  authority  reside  in  the 
people,  yet  they  can  act  only  indirectly  on  the  national  policy. 
This  generation  has  seen  a  democracy  with  an  imperial  figure- 
head, and  in  all  that  have  ever  existed  the  body  politic  has 
never  embraced  all  the  inhabitants  included  within  its  terri- 
tory: the  right  to  share  in  the  direction  of  affairs  has  been  con- 
fined to  citizens,  and  citizenship  has  been  further  restricted  by 
various  limitations,  sometimes  of  property,  sometimes  of  nativ- 
ity, and  always  of  age  and  sex. 

The  framers  of  the  American  Constitution  were  far  from 
wishing  or  intending  to  found  a  democracy  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  word,  though,  as  was  inevitable,  every  expansion  of  the 
scheme  of  government  they  elaborated  has  been  in  a  demo- 
cratical  direction.  But  this  has  been  generally  the  slow  result  of 
growth,  and  not  the  sudden  innovation  of  theory;  in  fact,  they 
had  a  profound  disbelief  in  theory,  and  knew  better  than  to 
commit  the  folly  of  breaking  with  the  past.  They  were  not 
seduced  by  the  French  fallacy  that  a  new  system  of  government 
could  be  ordered  like  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  They  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  ordering  a  new  suit  of  flesh  and  skin.  It  is 
only  on  the  roaring  loom  of  time  that  the  stuff  is  woven  for 
such  a  vesture  of  their  thought  and  experience  as  they  were 
meditating.  They  recognized  fully  the  value  of  tradition  and 
habit  as  the  great  allies  of  permanence  and  stabiHty.  They  all 
had  that  distaste  for  innovation  which  belonged  to  their  race, 
and  many  of  them  a  distrust  of  himian  nature  derived  from 
their  creed.  The  day  of  sentiment  was  over,  and  no  dithyram- 
bic  affirmations  or  fine-drawn  analyses  of  the  Rights  of  Man 
would  serve  their  present  turn.  This  was  a  practical  question, 
and  they  addressed  themselves  to  it  as  men  of  knowledge  and 
judgment  should.  Their  problem  was  how  to  adapt  English 
principles  and  precedents  to  the  new  conditions  of  American 


DEMOCRACY  559 

life,  and  they  solved  it  with  singular  discretion.  They  put  as 
many  obstacles  as  they  could  contrive,  not  in  the  way  of  the 
people's  will,  but  of  their  whim.  With  few  exceptions  they 
probably  admitted  the  logic  of  the  then  accepted  syllogism,  — 
democracy,  anarchy,  despotism.  But  this  formula  was  framed 
upon  the  experience  of  small  cities  shut  up  to  stew  within  their 
narrow  walls,  where  the  number  of  citizens  made  but  an  in- 
considerable fraction  of  the  inhabitants,  where  every  passion 
was  reverberated  from  house  to  house  and  from  man  to  man 
with  gathering  rumor  till  every  impulse  became  gregarious  and 
therefore  inconsiderate,  and  every  popular  assembly  needed 
but  an  infusion  of  eloquent  sophistry  to  turn  it  into  a  mob,  all 
the  more  dangerous  because  sanctified  with  the  formaUty  of 
law.^ 

Fortunately  their  case  was  wholly  different.  They  were  to 
legislate  for  a  widely  scattered  population  and  for  States  al- 
ready practised  in  the  discipline  of  a  partial  independence. 
They  had  an  unequalled  opportunity  and  enormous  advan- 
tages. The  material  they  had  to  work  upon  was  already  demo- 
cratical  by  instinct  and  habitude.  It  was  tempered  to  their 
hands  by  more  than  a  century's  schooling  in  self-government. 
They  had  but  to  give  permanent  and  conservative  form  to  a 
ductile  mass.  In  giving  impulse  and  direction  to  their  new  insti- 
tutions, especially  in  supplying  them  with  checks  and  balances, 
they  had  a  great  help  and  safeguard  in  their  federal  organiza- 
tion. The  different,  sometimes  conflicting,  interests  and  social 
systems  of  the  several  States  made  existence  as  a  Union  and 
coalescence  into  a  nation  conditional  on  a  constant  practice  of 
moderation  and  compromise.  The  very  elements  of  disintegra- 
tion were  the  best  guides  in  political  training.  Their  children 
learned  the  lesson  of  compromise  only  too  well,  and  it  was  the 
application  of  it  to  a  question  of  fundamental  morals  that  cost 
us  our  civil  war.  We  learned  once  for  all  that  compromise 
makes  a  good  umbrella *but  a  poor  roof;  that  it  is  a  temporary 
expedient,  often  wise  in  party  politics,  ahnost  sure  to  be  imwise 
in  statesmanship. 

Has  not  the  trial  of  democracy  in  America  proved,  on  the 

^  The  effect  of  the  electric  telegraph  in  reproducing  this  trooping  of  emotion 
and  perhaps  of  opinion  is  yet  to  be  measured.  The  effect  of  Darwinism  as  a  dis- 
integrator of  humanitarianism  is  also  to  be  reckoned  with.  [Author's  note.] 


56o  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

whole,  successful?  If  it  had  not,  would  the  Old  World  be  vexed 
with  any  fears  of  its  proving  contagious?  This  trial  would  have 
been  less  severe  could  it  have  been  made  with  a  people  homo- 
geneous in  race,  language,  and  traditions,  whereas  the  United 
States  have  been  called  on  to  absorb  and  assimilate  enormous 
masses  of  foreign  population,  heterogeneous  in  all  these  respects, 
and  drawn  mainly  from  that  class  which  might  fairly  say  that 
the  world  was  not  their  friend,  nor  the  world's  law.  The  previ- 
ous condition  too  often  justified  the  traditional  Irishman,  who, 
landing  in  New  York  and  asked  what  his  poHtics  were,  inquired 
if  there  was  a  Government  there,  and  on  being  told  that  there 
was,  retorted,  "Thin  I'm  agin  it!"  We  have  taken  from 
Europe  the  poorest,  the  most  ignorant,  the  most  turbulent  of 
her  people,  and  have  made  them  over  into  good  citizens,  who 
have  added  to  our  wealth,  and  who  are  ready  to  die  in  defence 
of  a  country  and  of  institutions  which  they  know  to  be  worth 
dying  for.  The  exceptions  have  been  (and  they  are  lamentable 
exceptions)  where  these  hordes  of  ignorance  and  poverty  have 
coagulated  in  great  cities.  But  the  social  system  is  yet  to  seek 
which  has  not  to  look  the  same  terrible  wolf  in  the  eyes.  On 
the  other  hand,  at  this  very  moment  Irish  peasants  are  buying 
up  the  worn-out  farms  of  Massachusetts,  and  making  them 
productive  again  by  the  same  virtues  of  industry  and  thrift 
that  once  made  them  profitable  to  the  English  ancestors  of  the 
men  who  are  deserting  them.  To  have  achieved  even  these 
prosaic  results  (if  you  choose  to  call  them  so),  and  that  out  of 
materials  the  most  discordant,  —  I  might  say  the  most  recalci- 
trant, —  argues  a  certain  beneficent  virtue  in  the  system  that 
could  do  it,  and  is  not  to  be  accounted  for  by  mere  luck.  Car- 
lyle  said  scornfully  that  America  meant  only  roast  turkey  every 
day  for  everybody.  He  forgot  that  States,  as  Bacon  said  of 
wars,  go  on  their  bellies.  As  for  the  security  of  property,  it 
should  be  tolerably  well  secured  in  a  country  where  every  other 
man  hopes  to  be  rich,  even  though  the  only  property  quaHfica- 
tion  be  the  ownership  of  two  hands  that  add  to  the  general 
wealth.  Is  it  not  the  best  security  for  anything  to  interest  the 
largest  possible  number  of  persons  in  its  preservation  and  the 
smallest  in  its  division?  In  point  of  fact,  far-seeing  men  count 
the  increasing  power  of  wealth  and  its  combinations  as  one  of 
the  chief  dangers  with  which  the  institutions  of  the  United 


DEMOCRACY  561 

States  are  threatened  in  the  not  distant  future.  The  right  of 
individual  property  is  no  doubt  the  very  corner-stone  of  civili- 
zation as  hitherto  understood,  but  I  am  a  little  impatient  of 
being  told  that  property  is  entitled  to  exceptional  considera- 
tion because  it  bears  all  burdens  of  the  State.  It  bears  those, 
indeed,  which  can  most  easily  be  borne,  but  poverty  pays  with 
its  person  the  chief  expenses  of  war,  pestilence,  and  famine. 
Wealth  should  not  forget  this,  for  poverty  is  beginning  to 
think  of  it  now  and  then.  Let  me  not  be  misimderstood.  I  see 
as  clearly  as  any  man  possibly  can,  and  rate  as  highly,  the 
value  of  wealth,  and  of  hereditary  wealth,  as  the  security  of 
refinement,  the  feeder  of  all  those  arts  that  ennoble  and  beautify 
life,  and  as  making  a  country  worth  Hving  in.  Many  an  ances- 
tral hall  here  in  England  has  been  a  nursery  of  that  culture 
which  has  been  of  example  and  benefit  to  all.  Old  gold  has  a 
civilizing  virtue  which  new  gold  must  grow  old  to  be  capable 
of  secreting. 

I  should  not  think  of  coming  before  you  to  defend  or  to  criti- 
cise any  form  of  government.  All  have  their  virtues,  all  their 
defects,  and  all  have  illustrated  one  period  or  another  in  the 
history  of  the  race,  with  signal  services  to  humanity  and  cul- 
ture. There  is  not  one  that  could  stand  a  cynical  cross-exami- 
nation by  an  experienced  criminal  lawyer,  except  that  of  a  per- 
fectly wise  and  perfectly  good  despot,  such  as  the  world  has 
never  seen,  except  in  that  white-haired  king  of  Browning's, 
who 

"Lived  long  ago 
In  the  morning  of  the  worid, 
When  Earth  was  nearer  Heaven  than  now." 

The  English  race,  if  they  did  not  invent  government  by  dis- 
cussion, have  at  least  carried  it  nearest  to  perfection  in  practice. 
It  seems  a  very  safe  and  reasonable  contrivance  for  occupying 
the  attention  of  the  country,  and  is  certainly  a  better  way  of 
settHng  questions  than  by  push  of  pike.  Yet,  if  one  should  ask 
it  why  it  should  not  rather  be  called  government  by  gabble,  it 
would  have  to  fumble  in  its  pocket  a  good  while  before  it  found 
the  change  for  a  convincing  reply.  As  matters  stand,  too,  it  is 
beginning  to  be  doubtful  whether  Parliament  and  Congress  sit 
at  Westminster  and  Washington  or  in  the  editors'  rooms  of  the 
leading  journals,  so  thoroughly  is  everything  debated  before 


562  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

the  authorized  and  responsible  debaters  get  on  their  legs.  And 
what  shall  we  say  of  government  by  a  majority  of  voices?  To 
a  person  who  in  the  last  century  would  have  called  himself  an 
Impartial  Observer,  a  numerical  preponderance  seems,  on  the 
whole,  as  clumsy  a  way  of  arriving  at  truth  as  could  well  be 
devised,  but  experience  has  apparently  shown  it  to  be  a  con- 
venient arrangement  for  determining  what  may  be  expedient 
or  advisable  or  practicable  at  any  given  moment.  Truth,  after 
all,  wears  a  different  face  to  everybody,  and  it  would  be  too 
tedious  to  wait  till  all  were  agreed.  She  is  said  to  lie  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  well,  for  the  very  reason,  perhaps,  that  whoever  looks 
down  in  search  of  her  sees  his  own  image  at  the  bottom,  and  is 
persuaded  not  only  that  he  has  seen  the  goddess,  but  that  she 
is  far  better-looking  than  he  had  imagined. 

The  arguments  against  universal  suffrage  are  equally  unan- 
swerable. *'What,"  we  exclaim,  ''shall  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry 
have  as  much  weight  in  the  scale  as  I?"  Of  course,  nothing 
could  be  more  absurd.  And  yet  universal  suffrage  has  not  been 
the  instrument  of  greater  unwisdom  than  contrivances  of  a 
more  select  description.  Assemblies  could  be  mentioned  com- 
posed entirely  of  Masters  of  Arts  and  Doctors  in  Divinity 
which  have  sometimes  shown  traces  of  human  passion  or  preju- 
dice in  their  votes.  Have  the  Serene  Highnesses  and  Enlight- 
ened Classes  carried  on  the  business  of  Mankind  so  well,  then, 
that  there  is  no  use  in  trying  a  less  costly  method  ?  The  demo- 
cratic theory  is  that  those  Constitutions  are  likely  to  prove 
steadiest  which  have  the  broadest  base,  that  the  right  to  vote 
makes  a  safety-valve  of  every  voter,  and  that  the  best  way  of 
teaching  a  man  how  to  vote  is  to  give  him  the  chance  of  prac- 
tice. For  the  question  is  no  longer  the  academic  one,  ''Is  it 
wise  to  give  every  man  the  ballot?"  but  rather  the  practical 
one,  "Is  it  prudent  to  deprive  whole  classes  of  it  any  longer?" 
It  may  be  conjectured  that  it  is  cheaper  in  the  long  run  to  lift 
men  up  than  to  hold  them  down,  and  that  the  ballot  in  their 
hands  is  less  dangerous  to  society  than  a  sense  of  wrong  in  their 
heads.  At  any  rate  this  is  the  dilemma  to  which  the  drift  of 
opinion  has  been  for  some  time  sweeping  us,  and  in  politics  a 
dilemma  is  a  more  unmanageable  thing  to  hold  by  the  horns 
than  a  wolf  by  the  ears.  It  is  said  that  the  right  of  suffrage  is 
not  valued  when  it  is  indiscriminately  bestowed,  and  there  may 


DEMOCRACY  563 

be  some  truth  in  this,  for  I  have  observed  that  what  men  prize 
most  is  a  privilege,  even  if  it  be  that  of  chief  mourner  at  a 
funeral.  But  is  there  not  danger  that  it  will  be  valued  at  more 
than  its  worth  if  denied,  and  that  some  illegitimate  way  will  be 
sought  to  make  up  for  the  want  of  it?  Men  who  have  a  voice 
in  public  affairs  are  at  once  affiliated  with  one  or  other  of  the 
great  parties  between  which  society  is  divided,  merge  their 
individual  hopes  and  opinions  in  its  safer,  because  more  gen- 
eralized, hopes  and  opinions,  are  disciplined  by  its  tactics,  and 
acquire,  to  a  certain  degree,  the  orderly  qualities  of  an  army. 
They  no  longer  belong  to  a  class,  but  to  a  body  corporate.  Of 
one  thing,  at  least,  we  may  be  certain,  that,  under  whatever 
method  of  helping  things  to  go  wrong  man's  wit  can  contrive, 
those  who  have  the  divine  right  to  govern  will  be  found  to  gov- 
ern in  the  end,  and  that  the  highest  privilege  to  which  the 
majority  of  mankind  can  aspire  is  that  of  being  governed  by 
those  wiser  than  they.  Universal  suffrage  has  in  the  United 
States  sometimes  been  made  the  instrument  of  inconsiderate 
changes,  under  the  notion  of  reform,  and  this  from  a  miscon- 
ception of  the  true  meaning  of  popular  government.  One  of 
these  has  been  the  substitution  in  many  of  the  States  of  popu- 
lar election  for  official  selection  in  the  choice  of  judges.  The 
same  system  applied  to  military  officers  was  the  source  of  much 
evil  during  our  civil  war,  and,  I  believe,  had  to  be  abandoned. 
But  it  has  been  also  true  that  on  all  great  questions  of  national 
policy  a  reserve  of  prudence  and  discretion  has  been  brought 
out  at  the  critical  moment  to  turn  the  scale  in  favor  of  a  wiser 
decision.  An  appeal  to  the  reason  of  the  people  has  never  been 
known  to  fail  in  the  long  run.  It  is,  perhaps,  true  that,  by 
effacing  the  principle  of  passive  obedience,  democracy,  ill 
understood,  has  slackened  the  spring  of  that  ductility  to  disci- 
pline which  is  essential  to  "the  unity  and  married  calm  of 
States."  But  I  feel  assured  that  experience  and  necessity  will 
cure  this  evil,  as  they  have  shown  their  power  to  cure  others. 
And  under  what  frame  of  policy  have  evils  ever  been  remedied 
till  they  became  intolerable,  and  shook  men  out  of  their  indo- 
lent indifference  through  their  fears? 

We  are  told  that  the  inevitable  result  of  democracy  is  to  sap 
the  foundations  of  personal  independence,  to  weaken  the  prin- 
ciple of  authority,  to  lessen  the  respect  due  to  eminence, 


564  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

whether  in  station,  virtue,  or  genius.  If  these  things  were  so, 
society  could  not  hold  together.  Perhaps  the  best  forcing-house 
of  robust  individuality  would  be  where  public  opinion  is  in- 
clined to  be  most  overbearing,  as  he  must  be  of  heroic  temper 
who  should  walk  along  Piccadilly  at  the  height  of  the  season 
in  a  soft  hat.  As  for  authority,  it  is  one  of  the  symptoms  of  the 
time  that  the  religious  reverence  for  it  is  declining  everywhere, 
but  this  is  due  partly  to  the  fact  that  state-craft  is  no  longer 
looked  upon  as  a  mystery,  but  as  a  business,  and  partly  to  the 
decay  of  superstition,  by  which  I  mean  the  habit  of  respecting 
what  we  are  told  to  respect  rather  than  what  is  respectable  in 
itself.  There  is  more  rough  and  timible  in  the  American  democ- 
racy than  is  altogether  agreeable  to  people  of  sensitive  nerves 
and  refined  habits,  and  the  people  take  their  political  duties 
lightly  and  laughingly,  as  is,  perhaps,  neither  unnatural  nor 
unbecoming  in  a  young  giant.  Democracies  can  no  more  jimip 
away  from  their  own  shadows  than  the  rest  of  us  can.  They  no 
doubt  sometimes  make  mistakes  and  pay  honor  to  men  who  do 
not  deserve  it.  But  they  do  this  because  they  believe  them 
worthy  of  it,  and  though  it  be  true  that  the  idol  is  the  measure 
of  the  worshipper,  yet  the  worship  has  in  it  the  germ  of  a 
nobler  religion.  But  is  it  democracies  alone  that  fall  into  these 
errors?  I,  who  have  seen  it  proposed  to  erect  a  statue  to  Hud- 
son the  railway  king,^  and  have  heard  Louis  Napoleon  hailed 
as  the  saviour  of  society  by  men  who  certainly  had  no  demo- 
cratic associations  or  leanings,  am  not  ready  to  think  so.  But 
democracies  have  Hkewise  their  finer  instincts.  I  have  also  seen 
the  wisest  statesman  and  most  pregnant  speaker  of  our  gener- 
ation, a  man  of  humble  birth  and  ungainly  manners,  of  little 
culture  beyond  what  his  own  genius  suppHed,  become  more 
absolute  in  power  than  any  monarch  of  modern  times  through 
the  reverence  of  his  countrymen  for  his  honesty,  his  wisdom, 
his  sincerity,  his  faith  in  God  and  man,  and  the  nobly  humane 
simplicity  of  his  character.  And  I  remember  another  whom 
popular  respect  enveloped  as  with  a  halo,  the  least  vulgar  of 
men,  the  most  austerely  genial,  and  the  most  independent  of 
opinion.  Wherever  he  went  he  never  met  a  stranger,  but  every- 
where neighbors  and  friends  proud  of  him  as  their  ornament 

^  George  Hudson,  an  English  railway  director,  whose  prosperity  grew  apace 
until  his  dishonorable  methods  were  discovered. 


DEMOCRACY  565 

and  decoration.  Institutions  which  could  bear  and  breed  such 
men  as  Lincoln  and  Emerson  had  surely  some  energy  for  good. 
No,  amid  all  the  fruitless  turmoil  and  miscarriage  of  the  world, 
if  there  be  one  thing  steadfast  and  of  favorable  omen,  one  thing 
to  make  optimism  distrust  its  own  obscure  distrust,  it  is  the 
rooted  instinct  in  men  to  admire  what  is  better  and  more 
beautiful  than  themselves.  The  touchstone  of  poUtical  and 
social  institutions  is  their  ability  to  supply  them  with  worthy 
objects  of  this  sentiment,  which  is  the  very  tap-root  of  civiliza- 
tion and  progress.  There  would  seem  to  be  no  readier  way  of 
feeding  it  with  the  elements  of  growth  and  vigor  than  such  an 
organization  of  society  as  will  enable  men  to  respect  themselves, 
and  so  to  justify  them  in  respecting  others. 

Such  a  result  is  quite  possible  under  other  conditions  than 
those  of  an  avowedly  democratical  Constitution.  For  I  take  it 
that  the  real  essence  of  democracy  was  fairly  enough  defined 
by  the  First  Napoleon  when  he  said  that  the  French  Revolu- 
tion meant "  la  carriere  ouverte  aux  talents  "  —  a  clear  pathway 
for  merit  of  whatever  kind.  I  should  be  incHned  to  paraphrase 
this  by  calling  democracy  that  form  of  society,  no  matter  what 
its  poHtical  classification,  in  which  every  man  had  a  chance 
and  knew  that  he  had  it.  If  a  man  can  climb,  and  feels  him- 
self encouraged  to  climb,  from  a  coalpit  to  the  highest  posi- 
tion for  which  he  is  fitted,  he  can  well  afford  to  be  indifferent 
what  name  is  given  to  the  government  under  which  he  lives. 
The  Bailli  of  Mirabeau,  uncle  of  the  more  famous  tribune  of 
that  name,  wrote  in  1771 :  "The  English  are,  in  my  opinion,  a 
hundred  times  more  agitated  and  more  unfortunate  than  the 
very  Algerines  themselves,  because  they  do  not  know  and  will 
not  know  till  the  destruction  of  their  over-swollen  power,  which 
I  believe  very  near,  whether  they  are  monarchy,  aristocracy,  or 
democracy,  and  wish  to  play  the  part  of  all  three."  England 
has  not  been  obliging  enough  to  fulfil  the  Bailli's  prophecy,  and 
perhaps  it  was  this  very  carelessness  about  the  name,  and  con- 
cern about  the  substance  of  popular  government,  this  skill  in 
getting  the  best  out  of  things  as  they  are,  in  utilizing  all  the 
motives  which  influence  men,  and  in  giving  one  direction  to 
many  impulses,  that  has  been  a  principal  factor  of  her  greatness 
and  power.  Perhaps  it  is  fortunate  to  have  an  unwritten  Con- 
stitution, for  men  are  prone  to  be  tinkering  the  work  of  their 


S66  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

own  hands,  whereas  they  are  more  willing  to  let  time  and  cir- 
cimistance  mend  or  modify  what  time  and  circumstance  have 
made.  All  free  governments,  whatever  their  name,  are  in  reality 
governments  by  public  opinion,  and  it  is  on  the  quality  of  this 
public  opinion  that  their  prosperity  depends.  It  is,  therefore, 
their  first  duty  to  purify  the  element  from  which  they  draw  the 
breath  of  life.  With  the  growth  of  democracy  grows  also  the 
fear,  if  not  the  danger,  that  this  atmosphere  may  be  corrupted 
with  poisonous  exhalations  from  lower  and  more  malarious 
levels,  and  the  question  of  sanitation  becomes  more  instant  and 
pressing.  Democracy  in  its  best  sense  is  merely  the  letting  in  of 
light  and  air.  Lord  Sherbrooke,^  with  his  usual  epigrammatic 
terseness,  bids  you  educate  your  future  rulers.  But  would  this 
alone  be  a  sufficient  safeguard?  To  educate  the  intelligence  is 
to  enlarge  the  horizon  of  its  desires  and  wants.  And  it  is  well 
that  this  should  be  so.  But  the  enterprise  must  go  deeper  and 
prepare  the  way  for  satisfying  those  desires  and  wants  in  so  far 
as  they  are  legitimate.  What  is  really  ominous  of  danger  to  the 
existing  order  of  things  is  not  democracy  (which,  properly 
understood,  is  a  conservative  force),  but  the  Socialism  which 
may  find  a  fulcrum  in  it.  If  we  cannot  equalize  conditions  and 
fortunes  any  more  than  we  can  equaUze  the  brains  of  men  — 
and  a  very  sagacious  person  has  said  that  "where  two  men  ride 
of  a  horse  one  must  ride  behind"  —  we  can  yet,  perhaps,  do 
something  to  correct  those  methods  and  influences  that  lead  to 
enormous  inequalities,  and  to  prevent  their  growing  more  enor- 
mous. It  is  all  very  well  to  pooh-pooh  Mr.  George^  and  to 
prove  him  mistaken  in  his  political  economy.  I  do  not  believe 
that  land  should  be  divided  because  the  quantity  of  it  is  lim- 
ited by  nature.  Of  what  may  this  not  be  said?  A  fortiori,  we 
might  on  the  same  principle  insist  on  a  division  of  human  wit, 
for  I  have  observed  that  the  quantity  of  this  has  been  even 
more  inconveniently  limited.  Mr.  George  himself  has  an  in- 
equitably large  share  of  it.  But  he  is  right  in  his  impelling  mo- 
tive; right,  also,  I  am  convinced,  in  insisting  that  humanity 
makes  a  part,  by  far  the  most  important  part,  of  pohtical  econ- 
omy; and  in  thinking  man  to  be  of  more  concern  and  more  con- 

^  Robert  Lowe,  Viscount  Sherbrooke  (1811-92),  an  English  politician. 
'  Henry  George  (1839-97),  author  of  Progress  and  Poverty  and  leader  in 
the  Single  Tax  movement. 


DEMOCRACY  567 

vincing  than  the  longest  columns  of  figures  in  the  world.  For 
unless  you  include  human  nature  in  your  addition,  your  total  is 
sure  to  be  wrong  and  your  deductions  from  it  fallacious.  Com- 
munism means  barbarism,  but  Socialism  means,  or  wishes  to 
mean,  cooj>eration  and  commmiity  of  interests,  sympathy,  the 
giving  to  the  hands  not  so  large  a  share  as  to  the  brains,  but  a 
larger  share  than  hitherto  in  the  wealth  they  must  combine  to 
produce  —  means,  in  short,  the  practical  application  of  Chris- 
tianity to  life,  and  has  in  it  the  secret  of  an  orderly  and  benign 
reconstruction.  State  SociaHsm  would  cut  off  the  very  roots 
in  personal  character  —  self-help,  forethought,  and  frugality  — 
which  nourish  and  sustain  the  trunk  and  branches  of  every 
vigorous  Commonwealth. 

I  do  not  believe  in  violent  changes,  nor  do  I  expect  them. 
Things  in  possession  have  a  very  firm  grip.  One  of  the  strong- 
est cements  of  society  is  the  conviction  of  mankind  that  the 
state  of  things  into  which  they  are  born  is  a  part  of  the  order 
of  the  universe,  as  natural,  let  us  say,  as  that  the  sun  should  go 
round  the  earth.  It  is  a  conviction  that  they  will  not  surrender 
except  on  compulsion,  and  a  wise  society  should  look  to  it  that 
this  compulsion  be  not  put  upon  them.  For  the  individual  man 
there  is  no  radical  cure,  outside  of  hiunan  nature  itself,  for  the 
evils  to  which  human  nature  is  heir.  The  rule  will  always  hold 
good  that  you  must 

"Be  your  own  palace  or  the  world's  your  gaol." 

But  for  artificial  evils,  for  evils  that  spring  from  want  of 
thought,  thought  must  find  a  remedy  somewhere.  There  has 
been  no  period  of  time  in  which  wealth  has  been  more  sensible 
of  its  duties  than  now.  It  builds  hospitals,  it  estabhshes  mis- 
sions among  the  poor,  it  endows  schools.  It  is  one  of  the  advan- 
tages of  accumulated  wealth,  and  of  the  leisure  it  renders  pos- 
sible, that  people  have  time  to  think  of  the  wants  and  sorrows 
of  their  fellows.  But  all  these  remedies  are  partial  and  pallia- 
tive merely.  It  is  as  if  we  should  apply  plasters  to  a  single  pus- 
tule of  the  small-pox  with  a  view  of  driving  out  the  disease. 
The  true  way  is  to  discover  and  to  extirpate  the  germs.  As 
society  is  now  constituted  these  are  in  the  air  it  breathes,  in  the 
water  it  drinks,  in  things  that  seem,  and  which  it  has  always 
believed,  to  be  the  most  innocent  and  healthful.  The  evil  ele- 


568  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

ments  it  neglects  corrupt  these  in  their  springs  and  pollute  them 
in  their  courses.  Let  us  be  of  good  cheer,  however,  remember- 
ing that  the  misfortunes  hardest  to  bear  are  those  which  never 
come.  The  world  has  outlived  much,  and  will  outlive  a  great 
deal  more,  and  men  have  contrived  to  be  happy  in  it.  It  has 
shown  the  strength  of  its  constitution  in  nothing  more  than  in 
surviving  the  quack  medicines  it  has  tried.  In  the  scales  of  the 
destinies  brawn  will  never  weigh  so  much  as  brain.  Our  healing 
is  not  in  the  storm  or  in  the  whirlwind,  it  is  not  in  monarchies, 
or  aristocracies,  or  democracies,  but  will  be  revealed  by  the 
still  small  voice  that  speaks  to  the  conscience  and  the  heart, 
prompting  us  to  a  wider  and  wiser  humanity. 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 
THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE ^ 


I  WAS  just  going  to  say,  when  I  was  interrupted,  that  one  of 
the  many  ways  of  classifying  minds  is  under  the  heads  of  arith- 
metical and  algebraical  intellects.  All  economical  and  practical 
wisdom  is  an  extension  or  variation  of  the  following  arith- 
metical formula:  2  +  2=4.  Every  philosophical  proposition 
has  the  more  general  character  of  the  expression  a-\-b=c.  We 
are  mere  operatives,  empirics,  and  egotists,  until  we  learn  to 
think  in  letters  instead  of  figures. 

They  all  stared.  There  is  a  divinity  student  lately  come 
among  us  to  whom  I  commonly  address  remarks  Hke  the  above, 
allowing  him  to  take  a  certain  share  in  the  conversation,  so  far 
as  assent  or  pertinent  questions  are  involved.  He  abused  his 
liberty  on  this  occasion  by  presuming  to  say  that  Leibnitz  had 
the  same  observation.  —  No,  sir,  I  repHed,  he  has  not.  But  he 
said  a  mighty  good  thing  about  mathematics,  that  sounds 
something  Uke  it,  and  you  found  it,  not  in  the  original,  but 
quoted  by  Dr.  Thomas  Reid.  I  will  tell  the  company  what  he 
did  say,  one  of  these  days. 

^  "The  interruption  referred  to  in  the  first  sentence  of  the  first  of  these  papers 
was  just  a  quarter  of  a  century  in  duration. 

"Two  articles  entitled  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table  will  be  found  in  the 
New  England  Magazine,  formerly  published  in  Boston  by  J.  T.  and  E.  Bucking- 
ham. The  date  of  the  first  of  these  articles  is  November,  183 1,  and  that  of  the 
second  February,  1832.  When  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  begun,  twenty-five 
years  afterwards,  and  the  author  was  asked  to  write  for  it,  the  recollection  of 
these  crude  products  of  his  uncombed  literary  boyhood  suggested  the  thought 
that  it  would  be  a  curious  experiment  to  shake  the  same  bough  again,  and  see  if 
the  ripe  fruit  were  better  or  worse  than  the  early  windfalls. 

"So  began  this  series  of  papers,  which  naturally  brings  those  earlier  attempts  to 
my  own  notice  and  that  of  some  few  friends  who  were  idle  enough  to  read  them 
at  the  time  of  their  publication.  The  man  is  father  to  the  boy  that  was,  and  I 
am  my  own  son,  as  it  seems  to  me,  in  those  papers  of  the  Neiv  England  Magazine. 
If  I  find  it  hard  to  pardon  the  boy's  faults,  others  would  find  it  harder.  They  will 
not,  therefore,  be  reprinted  here,  nor,  as  I  hope,  anywhere."  (Holmes,  "The 
Autocrat's  Autobiography,"  which  prefaces  the  book.) 


570  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

—  If  I  belong  to  a  Society  of  Mutual  Admiration?  —  I  blush 
to  say  that  I  do  not  at  this  present  moment.  I  once  did,  how- 
ever. It  was  the  first  association  to  which  I  ever  heard  the 
term  applied ;  a  body  of  scientific  young  men  in  a  great  foreign 
city^  who  admired  their  teacher,  and  to  some  extent  each  other. 
Many  of  them  deserved  it;  they  have  become  famous  since. 
It  amuses  me  to  hear  the  talk  of  one  of  those  beings  described 
by  Thackeray  — 

"Letters  four  do  form  his  name"  —  ^ 

about  a  social  development  which  belongs  to  the  very  noblest 
stage  of  civilization.  All  generous  companies  of  artists,  authors, 
philanthropists,  men  of  science,  are,  or  ought  to  be,  Societies 
of  Mutual  Admiration.  A  man  of  genius,  or  any  kind  of  superi- 
ority, is  not  debarred  from  admiring  the  same  quality  in  an- 
other, nor  the  other  from  returning  his  admiration.  They  may 
even  associate  together  and  continue  to  think  highly  of  each 
other.  And  so  of  a  dozen  such  men,  if  any  one  place  is  fortu- 
nate enough  to  hold  so  many.  The  being  referred  to  above 
assumes  several  false  premises.  First,  that  men  of  talent  neces- 
sarily hate  each  other.  Secondly,  that  intimate  knowledge  or 
habitual  association  destroys  our  admiration  of  persons  whom 
we  esteemed  highly  at  a  distance.  Thirdly,  that  a  circle  of 
clever  fellows,  who  meet  together  to  dine  and  have  a  good  time, 
have  signed  a  constitutional  compact  to  glorify  themselves  and 

^  The  "body  of  scientific  young  men  in  a  great  foreign  city"  was  the  Soci6t6 
d'Observation  Medicale,  of  Paris,  of  which  M.  Louis  was  president,  and  MM. 
Barth,  Grisotte,  and  our  own  Dr.  Bowditch  were  members.  They  agreed  in 
admiring  their  justly-honored  president,  and  thought  highl|k  of  some  of  their 
associates,  who  have  since  made  good  their  promise  of  distinction. 

About  the  time  when  these  papers  were  published,  the  Saturday  Club  was 
founded,  or,  rather,  found  itself  in  existence,  without  any  organization,  almost 
without  parentage.  It  was  natural  enough  that  such  men  as  Emerson,  Long- 
fellow, Agassiz,  Peirce,  with  Hawthorne,  Motley,  Sumner,  when  within  reach, 
and  others  who  would  be  good  company  for  them,  should  meet  and  dine  together 
once  in  a  while,  as  they  did,  in  point  of  fact,  every  month,  and  as  some  who  are 
still  living,  with  other  and  newer  members,  still  meet  and  dine.  If  some  of  them 
had  not  admired  each  other  they  would  have  been  exceptions  in  the  world  of 
letters  and  science.  The  club  deserves  being  remembered  for  having  no  constitu- 
tion or  by-laws,  for  making  no  speeches,  reading  no  papers,  observing  no  cere- 
monies, coming  and  going  at  will  wdthout  remark,  and  acting  out,  though  it  did 
not  proclaim  the  motto,  "Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?"  There  was 
and  is  nothing  of  the  Bohemian  element  about  this  club,  but  it  has  had  many 
good  times  and  not  a  Uttle  good  talking.   [Author's  note.] 

2  Coleridge  on  Pitt.  Thackeray's  virtuosity  in  scenting  out  snobs  is  notorious. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  571 

to  put  down  him  and  the  fraction  of  the  human  race  not  be- 
longing to  their  nimiber.  Fourthly,  that  it  is  an  outrage  that 
he  is  not  asked  to  join  them. 

Here  the  company  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  the  old  gentle- 
man who  sits  opposite  said:  "That's  it,  that's  it!" 

I  continued,  for  I  was  in  the  talking  vein.  As  to  clever  peo- 
ple's hating  each  other,  I  think  a  little  extra  talent  does  some- 
times make  people  jealous.  They  become  irritated  by  perpetual 
attempts  and  failures,  and  it  hurts  their  tempers  and  disposi- 
tions. Unpretending  mediocrity  is  good,  and  genius  is  glorious; 
but  a  weak  flavor  of  genius  in  an  essentially  common  person  is 
detestable.  It  spoils  the  grand  neutrality  of  a  commonplace 
character,  as  the  rinsings  of  an  unwashed  wine-glass  sjxjil  a 
draught  of  fair  water.  No  wonder  the  poor  fellow  we  spoke  of, 
who  always  belongs  to  this  class  of  slightly  flavored  mediocri- 
ties, is  puzzled  and  vexed  by  the  strange  sight  of  a  dozen  men 
of  capacity  working  and  playing  together  in  harmony.  He  and 
his  fellows  are  always  fighting.  With  them  familiarity  natu- 
rally breeds  contempt.  If  they  ever  praise  each  other's  bad 
drawings,  or  broken- winded  novels,  or  spavined  verses,  no- 
body ever  supposed  it  was  from  admiration;  it  was  simply  a 
contract  between  themselves  and  a  publisher  or  dealer. 

If  the  Mutuals  have  really  nothing  among  them  worth 
admiring,  that  alters  the  question.  But  if  they  are  men  with 
noble  powers  and  qualities,  let  me  tell  you  that,  next  to  youth- 
ful love  and  family  affections,  there  is  no  human  sentiment 
better  than  that  which  unites  the  Societies  of  Mutual  Admira- 
tion. And  wh'  t  would  literature  or  art  be  without  such  associa- 
tions? Who  can  tell  what  we  owe  to  the  Mutual  Admiration 
Society  of  which  Shakespeare,  and  Ben  Jonson,  and  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  were  members?  Or  to  that  of  w:hich  Addison  and 
Steele  formed  the  centre,  and  which  gave  us  the  Spectator? 
Or  to  that  where  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Burke,  and 
Rejoiolds,  and  Beauclerk,  and  Boswell,  most  admiring  among 
all  admirers,  met  together?  Was  there  any  great  harm  in  the 
fact  that  the  Irvings  and  Paulding  wrote  in  company?  or  any 
unpardonable  cabal  in  the  literary  union  of  Verplanck  and 
Bryant  and  Sands,  and  as  many  more  as  they  chose  to  asso- 
ciate with  them? 

The  poor  creature  does  not  know  what  he  is  talking  about 


572  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

when  he  abuses  this  noblest  of  institutions.  Let  him  inspect  its 
mysteries  through  the  knot-hole  he  has  secured,  but  not  use 
that  orifice  as  a  medium  for  his  popgun.  Such  a  society  is  the 
crown  of  a  literary  metropolis;  if  a  town  has  not  material  for 
it,  and  spirit  and  good  feeling  enough  to  organize  it,  it  is  a 
mere  caravansary,  fit  for  a  man  of  genius  to  lodge  in,  but  not 
to  live  in.  Foolish  people  hate  and  dread  and  envy  such  an 
association  of  men  of  varied  powers  and  influence,  because  it  is 
lofty,  serene,  impregnable,  and,  by  the  necessity  of  the  case, 
exclusive.  Wise  ones  are  prouder  of  the  title  M.  S.  M.  A.  than 
of  all  their  other  honors  put  together. 

—  All  generous  minds  have  a  horror  of  what  are  commonly 
called  *' facts."  They  are  the  brute  beasts  of  the  intellectual 
domain.  Who  does  not  know  fellows  that  always  have  an  ill- 
conditioned  fact  or  two  which  they  lead  after  them  into  decent 
company  like  so  many  bull-dogs,  ready  to  let  them  slip  at  every 
ingenious  suggestion,  or  convenient  generalization,  or  pleasant 
fancy?  I  allow  no ''facts"  at  this  table.  What  I  Because  bread 
is  good  and  wholesome,  and  necessary  and  nourishing,  shall  you 
thrust  a  crumb  into  my  windpipe  while  I  am  talking?  Do  not 
these  muscles  of  mine  represent  a  hundred  loaves  of  bread? 
and  is  not  my  thought  the  abstract  of  ten  thousand  of  these 
crumbs  of  truth  with  which  you  would  choke  off  my  speech? 

[The  above  remark  must  be  conditioned  and  qualified  for 
the  vulgar  mind.  The  reader  will,  of  course,  understand  the 
precise  amount  of  seasoning  which  must  be  added  to  it  before 
he  adopts  it  as  one  of  the  axioms  of  his  life.  The  speaker  dis- 
claims all  responsibility  for  its  abuse  in  incompetent  hands.] 

This  business  of  conversation  is  a  very  serious  matter.  There 
are  men  whom  it  weakens  one  to  talk  with  an  hour  more  than 
a  day's  fasting  would  do.  Mark  this  which  I  am  going  to  say, 
for  it  is  as  good  as  a  working  professional  man's  advice,  and 
costs  you  nothing :  It  is  better  to  lose  a  pint  of  blood  from  your 
veins  than  to  have  a  nerve  tapped.  Nobody  measures  your 
nervous  force  as  it  runs  away,  nor  bandages  your  brain  and 
marrow  after  the  operation. 

There  are  men  of  esprit  who  are  excessively  exhausting  to 
some  people.  They  are  the  talkers  who  have  what  may  be 
called  jerky  minds.  Their  thoughts  do  not  run  in  the  natural 
order  of  sequence.   They  say  bright  things  on  all  possible 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  573 

subjects,  but  their  zigzags  rack  you  to  death.  After  a  jolting 
half-hour  with  one  of  these  jerky  companions,  talking  with  a 
dull  friend  affords  great  relief.  It  is  like  taking  the  cat  in  your 
lap  after  holding  a  squirrel. 

What  a  comfort  a  dull  but  kindly  person  is,  to  be  sure,  at 
times!  A  ground-glass  shade  over  a  gas-lamp  does  not  bring 
more  solace  to  our  dazzled  eyes  than  such  a  one  to  our  minds. 

"Do  not  dull  people  bore  you?"  said  one  of  the  lady- 
boarders,  —  the  same  who  sent  me  her  autograph-book  last 
week  with  a  request  for  a  few  original  stanzas,  not  remember- 
ing that  ''The  Pactolian"  pays  me  five  dollars  a  line  for  every 
thing  I  write  in  its  columns. 

"Madam,"  said  I  (she  and  the  century  were  in  their  teens 
together),  "all  men  are  bores,  except  when  we  want  them. 
There  never  was  but  one  man  whom  I  would  trust  with  my 
latch-key." 

"Who  might  that  favored  person  be?" 

"Zimmermann."  ^ 

—  The  men  of  genius  that  I  fancy  most,  have  erectile  heads 
like  the  cobra-di-capello.  You  remember  what  they  tell  of 
William  Pinkney,  the  great  pleader;  how  in  his  eloquent 
paroxysms  the  veins  of  his  neck  would  swell  and  his  face  flush 
and  his  eyes  glitter,  until  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of  apoplexy. 
The  hydraulic  arrangements  for  supplying  the  brain  with  blood 
are  only  second  in  importance  to  its  own  organization.  The 
bulbous-headed  fellows  who  steam  well  when  they  are  at  work 
are  the  men  that  draw  big  audiences  and  give  us  marrowy 
books  and  pictures.  It  is  a  good  sign  to  have  one's  feet  grow 
cold  when  he  is  writing.  A  great  writer  and  speaker  once  told 
me  that  he  often  wrote  with  his  feet  in  hot  water;  but  for  this, 
all  his  blood  would  have  run  into  his  head,  as  the  mercury 
sometimes  withdraws  into  the  ball  of  a  thermometer. 

—  You  don't  suppose  that  my  remarks  made  at  this  table 
are  like  so  many  postage-stamps,  do  you,  —  each  to  be  only 
once  uttered?  If  you  do,  you  are  mistaken.  He  must  be  a  poor 
creature  who  does  not  often  repeat  himself.  Imagine  the  author 
of  the  excellent  piece  of  advice,  "Know  thyself,"  never  allud- 

*  The  Treatise  on  Solitude  is  not  so  frequently  seen  lying  about  on  library 
tables  as  in  our  younger  days.  I  remember  that  I  always  respected  the  title  and 
let  the  book  alone.  [Author's  note.] 


574  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

ing  to  that  sentiment  again  during  the  course  of  a  protracted 
existence!  Why,  the  truths  a  man  carries  about  with  him  are 
his  tools;  and  do  you  think  a  carpenter  is  bound  to  use  the  same 
plane  but  once  to  smooth  a  knotty  board  with,  or  to  hang  up 
his  hammer  after  it  has  driven  its  first  nail?  I  shall  never  repeat 
a  conversation,  but  an  idea  often.  I  shall  use  the  same  types 
when  I  like,  but  not  commonly  the  same  stereotypes.  A 
thought  is  often  original,  though  you  have  uttered  it  a  hundred 
times.  It  has  come  to  you  over  a  new  route,  by  a  new  and 
express  train  of  associations. 

Sometimes,  but  rarely,  one  may  be  caught  making  the  same 
speech  twice  over,  and  yet  be  held  blameless.  Thus,  a  certain 
lecturer,  after  performing  in  an  inland  city,  where  dwells  a 
Litteratrice  of  note,  was  invited  to  meet  her  and  others  over  the 
social  teacup.  She  pleasantly  referred  to  his  many  wanderings 
in  his  new  occupation.  "Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  am  like  the 
Huma,^  the  bird  that  never  Hghts,  being  always  in  the  cars, 
as  he  is  always  on  the  wing."  —  Years  elapsed.  The  lecturer 
visited  the  same  place  once  more  for  the  same  purpose.  An- 
other social  cup  after  the  lecture,  and  a  second  meeting  with 
the  distinguished  lady.  "You  are  constantly  going  from  place 
to  place,"  she  said.  —  "Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  am  like  the 
Huma,"  —  and  finished  the  sentence  as  before. 

What  horrors,  when  it  flashed  over  him  that  he  had  made 
this  fine  speech,  word  for  word,  twice  over!  Yet  it  was  not 
true,  as  the  lady  might  perhaps  have  fairly  inferred,  that  he 
had  embellished  his  conversation  with  the  Huma  daily  during 
that  whole  interval  of  years.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  never 
once  thought  of  the  odious  fowl  until  the  recurrence  of  precisely 
the  same  circumstances  brought  up  precisely  the  same  idea. 
He  ought  to  have  been  proud  of  the  accuracy  of  his  mental 
adjustments.  Given  certain  factors,  and  a  sound  brain  should 
always  evolve  the  same  fixed  product  with  the  certainty  of 
Babbage's  calculating  machine. 

—  What  a  satire,  by  fhe  way,  is  that  machine  on  the  mere 
mathematician!    A  Frankenstein-monster,   a   thing  without 

^  It  was  an  agreeable  incident  of  two  consecutive  visits  to  Hartford,  Connecti- 
cut, that  I  met  there  the  late  Mrs.  Sigoumey.  The  second  meeting  recalled  the 
first,  and  with  it  the  allusion  to  the  Huma,  which  bird  is  the  subject  of  a  short 
poem  by  another  New  England  authoress,  which  may  be  found  in  Mr.  Griswold's 
collection.  [Author's  note.] 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  575 

brains  and  without  heart,  too  stupid  to  make  a  blunder;  which 
turns  out  results  like  a  corn-sheller,  and  never  grows  any  wiser 
or  better,  though  it  grind  a  thousand  bushels  of  them! 

I  have  an  immense  respect  for  a  man  of  talents  plus  "the 
mathematics."  But  the  calculating  power  alone  should  seem 
to  be  the  least  human  of  quaUties,  and  to  have  the  smallest 
amount  of  reason  in  it;  since  a  machine  can  be  made  to  do  the 
work  of  three  or  four  calculators,  and  better  than  any  one  of 
them.  Sometimes  I  have  been  troubled  that  I  had  not  a  deeper 
intuitive  apprehension  of  the  relations  of  numbers.  But  the 
triumph  of  the  ciphering  hand-organ  has  consoled  me.  I  always 
fancy  I  can  hear  the  wheels  clicking  in  a  calculator's  brain. 
The  power  of  dealing  with  numbers  is  a  kind  of  "detached 
lever"  arrangement,  which  may  be  put  into  a  mighty  poor 
watch.  I  suppose  it  is  about  as  common  as  the  power  of  moving 
the  ears  voluntarily,  which  is  a  moderately  rare  endowment. 

—  Little  localized  powers,  and  little  narrow  streaks  of  spe- 
cialized knowledge,  are  things  men  are  very  apt  to  be  conceited 
about.  Nature  is  very  wise;  but  for  this  encouraging  principle 
how  many  small  talents  and  little  accomplishments  would  be 
neglected!  Talk  about  conceit  as  much  as  you  like,  it  is  to 
human  character  what  salt  is  to  the  ocean;  it  keeps  it  sweet, 
and  renders  it  endurable.  Say  rather  it  is  like  the  natural 
unguent  of  the  sea-fowl's  plumage,  which  enables  him  to  shed 
the  rain  that  falls  on  him  and  the  wave  in  which  he  dips.  When 
one  has  had  all  his  conceit  taken  out  of  him,  when  he  has  lost  all 
his  illusions,  his  feathers  will  soon  soak  through,  and  he  will 
fly  no  more. 

"So  you  admire  conceited  people,  do  you?"  said  the  young 
lady  who  has  come  to  the  city  to  be  finished  off  for  —  the  duties 
of  Ufe. 

I  am  afraid  you  do  not  study  logic  at  your  school,  my  dear. 
It  does  not  follow  that  I  wish  to  be  pickled  in  brine  because  I 
like  a  salt-water  plunge  at  Nahant.  I  say  that  conceit  is  just 
as  natural  a  thing  to  human  minds  as  a  centre  is  to  a  circle. 
But  little-minded  people's  thoughts  move  in  such  small  circles 
that  five  minutes'  conversation  gives  you  an  arc  long  enough 
to  determine  their  whole  curve.  An  arc  in  the  movement  of  a 
large  intellect  does  not  sensibly  differ  from  a  straight  line. 
Even  if  it  have  the  third  vowel  as  its  centre,  it  does  not  soon 


\y 


576  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

betray  it.  The  highest  thought,  that  is,  is  the  most  seemingly 
impersonal;  it  does  not  obviously  imply  any  individual  centre. 
Audacious  self-esteem,  with  good  ground  for  it,  is  always 
imposing.  What  resplendent  beauty  that  must  have  been 
which  could  have  authorized  Phryne  to  "peel"  in  the  way  she 
did!^  What  fine  speeches  are  those  two:  ^'''Non  omnis  moriar,'^^ 
and  "  I  have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  province  " !  Even  in 
common  people,  conceit  has  the  virtue  of  making  them  cheer- 
ful; the  man  who  thinks  his  wife,  his  baby,  his  house,  his  horse, 
his  dog,  and  himself  severally  unequalled,  is  almost  sure  to  be  a 
good-humored  person,  though  Uable  to  be  tedious  at  times. 

—  What  are  the  great  faults  of  conversation?  Want  of  ideas, 
want  of  words,  want  of  manners,  are  the  principal  ones,  I  sup- 
pose you  think.  I  don't  doubt  it,  but  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have 
found  spoil  more  good  talks  than  anything  else;  —  long  argu- 
ments on  special  points  between  people  who  differ  on  the  funda- 
mental principles  upon  which  these  points  depend.  No  men 
can  have  satisfactory  relations  with  each  other  until  they  have 
agreed  on  certain  ultimata  of  belief  not  to  be  disturbed  in  ordi- 
nary conversation,  and  unless  they  have  sense  enough  to  trace 
the  secondary  questions  depending  upon  these  ultimate  beliefs 
to  their  source.  In  short,  just  as  a  written  constitution  is  essen- 
tial to  the  best  social  order,  so  a  code  of  finalities  is  a  necessary 
condition  of  profitable  talk  between  two  persons.  Talking  is 
like  playing  on  the  harp;  there  is  as  much  in  laying  the  hand 
on  the  strings  to  stop  their  vibrations  as  in  twanging  them  to 
bring  out  their  music. 

—  Do  you  mean  to  say  the  pun-question  is  not  clearly  settled 
in  your  minds?  Let  me  lay  down  the  law  upon  the  subject. 
Life  and  language  are  ahke  sacred.  Homicide  and  verbicide  — 
that  is,  violent  treatment  of  a  word  with  fatal  results  to  its 
legitimate  meaning,  which  is  its  life  —  are  alike  forbidden. 
Manslaughter,  which  is  the  meaning  of  the  one,  is  the  same  as 
man's  laughter,  which  is  the  end  of  the  other.  A  pun  is  prima 
facie  an  insult  to  the  person  you  are  talking  with.  It  implies 
utter  indifference  to  or  sublime  contempt  for  his  remarks,  no 
matter  how  serious.  I  speak  of  total  depravity,  and  one  says 
all  that  is  written  on  the  subject  is  deep  raving.   I  have  com- 

^  Phtyne,  the  Greek  courtesan,  disrobed  before  the  tribunal. 
2  "  I  shall  not  altogether  die." 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  577 

mitted  my  self-respect  by  talking  with  such  a  person.  I  should 
like  to  commit  him,  but  cannot,  because  he  is  a  nuisance.  Or  I 
speak  of  geological  convulsions,  and  he  asks  me  what  was  the 
cosine  of  Noah's  ark;  also,  whether  the  Deluge  was  not  a  deal 
huger  than  any  modern  inundation. 

A  pun  does  not  commonly  justify  a  blow  in  return.  But  if  a 
blow  were  given  for  such  cause,  and  death  ensued,  the  jury 
would  be  judges  both  of  the  facts  and  of  the  pun,  and  might,  if 
the  latter  were  of  an  aggravated  character,  return  a  verdict  of 
justifiable  homicide.  Thus,  in  a  case  lately  decided  before 
Miller,  J.,  Doe  presented  Roe  a  subscription  paper,  and  urged 
the  claims  of  suffering  humanity.  Roe  replied  by  asking,  When 
charity  was  like  a  top?  It  was  in  evidence  that  Doe  preserved 
a  dignified  silence.  Roe  then  said,  "When  it  begins  to  hum." 
Doe  then  —  and  not  till  then  —  struck  Roe,  and  his  head  hap- 
pening to  hit  a  boimd  volume  of  the  Monthly  Rag-Bag  and 
Stolen  Miscellany,  intense  mortification  ensued,  with  a  fatal 
result.  The  chief  laid  down  his  notions  of  the  law  to  his 
brother  justices,  who  unanimously  repHed,  "Jest  so."  The 
chief  rejoined,  that  no  man  should  jest  so  without  being  pun- 
ished for  it,  and  charged  for  the  prisoner,  who  was  acquitted, 
and  the  pun  ordered  to  be  burned  by  the  sheriff.  The  bound 
volume  was  forfeited  as  a  deodand,  but  not  claimed. 

People  that  make  puns  are  like  wanton  boys  that  put  cop- 
pers on  the  railroad  tracks.  They  amuse  themselves  and  other 
children,  but  their  little  trick  may  upset  a  freight  train  of  con- 
versation for  the  sake  of  a  battered  witticism. 

I  will  thank  you,  B.  F.,  to  bring  down  two  books,  of  which  I 
will  mark  the  places  on  this  slip  of  paper.  (While  he  is  gone, 
I  may  say  that  this  boy,  our  landlady's  youngest,  is  called 
Benjamin  Fr.\nklin,  after  the  celebrated  philosopher  of  that 
name.  A  highly  merited  compliment.) 

I  wished  to  refer  to  two  eminent  authorities.  Now  be  so 
good  as  to  listen.  The  great  moralist  says:  "To  trifle  with  the 
vocabulary  which  is  the  vehicle  of  social  intercourse  is  to 
tamper  with  the  currency  of  hmnan  intelligence.  He  who 
would  violate  the  sanctities  of  his  mother  tongue  would  invade 
the  recesses  of  the  paternal  till  without  remorse,  and  repeat  the 
banquet  of  Saturn  without  an  indigestion." 

And,  once  more,  listen  to  the  historian.  "  The  Puritans  hated 


578  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

puns.  The  Bishops  were  notoriously  addicted  to  them.  The 
Lords  Temporal  carried  them  to  the  verge  of  license.  Majesty 
itself  must  have  its  Royal  quibble.  'Ye  be  buriy,  my  Lord  of 
Burieigh/  said  Queen  Elizabeth,  'but  ye  shall  make  less  stir  in 
our  realm  than  my  Lord  of  Leicester.'  The  gravest  wisdom  and 
the  highest  breeding  lent  their  sanction  to  the  practice.  Lord 
Bacon  playfully  declared  himself  a  descendant  of  'Og,  the 
King  of  Bashan.  Sir  PhiHp  Sidney,  with  his  last  breath,  re- 
proached the  soldier  who  brought  him  water,  for  wasting  a 
casque  full  upon  a  dying  man.  A  courtier,  who  saw  Othello 
performed  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  remarked,  that  the  blacka- 
moor was  a  brute,  and  not  a  man.  'Thou  hast  reason,'  replied 
a  great  Lord,  'according  to  Plato  his  saying;  for  this  be  a  two- 
legged  animal  with  feathers.'  The  fatal  habit  became  universal. 
The  language  was  corrupted.  The  infection  spread  to  the  na- 
tional conscience.  Political  double-dealings  naturally  grew  out 
of  verbal  double  meanings.  The  teeth  of  the  new  dragon  were 
sown  by  the  Cadmus  who  introduced  the  alphabet  of  equivo- 
cation. What  was  levity  in  the  time  of  the  Tudors  grew  to  regi- 
cide and  revolution  in  the  age  of  the  Stuarts." 

Who  was  that  boarder  that  just  whispered  something  about 
the  Macaulay-flowers  of  literature?  — There  was  a  dead  silence. 

—  I  said  calmly,  I  shall  henceforth  consider  any  interruption 
by  a  pun  as  a  hint  to  change  my  boarding-house.  Do  not 
plead  my  example.  If  /  have  used  any  such,  it  has  been 
only  as  a  Spartan  father  would  show  up  a  drunken  helot.  We 
have  done  with  them. 

—  If  a  logical  mind  ever  found  out  anything  with  its  logic? 

—  I  should  say  that  its  most  frequent  work  was  to  build  a  pons 
asinorum}  over  chasms  which  shrewd  people  can  bestride  with- 
out such  a  structure.  You  can  hire  logic,  in  the  shape  of  a 
lawyer,  to  prove  anything  that  you  want  to  prove.  You  can 
buy  treatises  to  show  that  Napoleon  never  lived,  and  that  no 
battle  of  Bunker-hill  was  ever  fought.  The  great  minds  are 
those  with  a  wide  span,^  which  couple  truths  related  to,  but 
far  removed  from,  each  other.  Logicians  carry  the  surveyor's 
chain  over  the  track  of  which  these  are  the  true  explorers. 

*  Bridge  of  fools. 

2  There  is  something  like  this  in  J.  H.  Newman's  Grammar  of  Assent.    See 
Characteristics  J  arranged  by  W.  S.  Lilly,  p.  8i.    [Author's  note.] 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  579 

I  value  a  man  mainly  for  his  primary  relations  with  truth,  as  I 
understand  truth,  —  not  for  any  secondary  artifice  in  handling 
his  ideas.  Some  of  the  sharpest  men  in  argument  are  notori- 
ously unsound  in  judgment.  I  should  not  trust  the  counsel  of  a 
clever  debater,  any  more  than  that  of  a  good  chess-player. 
Either  may  of  course  advise  wisely,  but  not  necessarily  because 
he  wrangles  or  plays  well. 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  got  his  hand  up,  as  a 
pointer  lifts  his  forefoot,  at  the  expression,  "his  relations  with 
truth,  as  I  understand  truth,"  and  when  I  had  done,  sniffed 
audibly,  and  said  I  talked  like  a  transcenden talis t.  For  his 
part,  common  sense  was  good  enough  for  him. 

Precisely  so,  my  dear  sir,  I  replied;  common  sense,  as  you 
understand  it.  We  all  have  to  assume  a  standard  of  judgment 
in  our  own  minds,  either  of  things  or  persons.  A  man  who  is 
willing  to  take  another's  opinion  has  to  exercise  his  judgment  in 
the  choice  of  whom  to  follow,  which  is  often  as  nice  a  matter 
as  to  judge  of  things  for  one's  self.  On  the  whole,  I  had  rather 
judge  men's  minds  by  comparing  their  thoughts  with  my  own, 
than  judge  of  thoughts  by  knowing  who  utter  them.  I  must  do 
one  or  the  other.  It  does  not  follow,  of  course,  that  I  may  not 
recognize  another  man's  thoughts  as  broader  and  deeper  than 
my  own;  but  that  does  not  necessarily  change  my  opinion, 
otherwise  this  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  every  superior  mind 
that  held  a  different  one.  How  many  of  our  most  cherished  be- 
liefs are  like  those  drinking-glasses  of  the  ancient  pattern,  that 
serve  us  well  so  long  as  we  keep  them  in  our  hand,  but  spill  all 
if  we  attempt  to  set  them  down!  I  have  sometimes  compared 
conversation  to  the  Italian  game  of  mora,  in  which  one  player 
lifts  his  hand  with  so  many  fingers  extended,  and  the  other  gives 
the  number  if  he  can.  I  show  my  thought,  another  his;  if  they 
agree,  well;  if  they  differ,  we  find  the  largest  common  factor, 
if  we  can,  but  at  any  rate  avoid  disputing  about  remainders 
and  fractions,  which  is  to  real  talk  what  tuning  an  instrument 
is  to  playing  on  it. 

—  What  if,  instead  of  talking  this  morning,  I  should  read 
you  a  copy  of  verses,  with  critical  remarks  by  the  author?  Any 
of  the  company  can  retire  that  like. 


58o  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


ALBUM  VERSES 

When  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 

And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 
The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say, 

Agreed  with  one  another 

To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter's  art, 

And  teach  the  race  its  duty. 
By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 

Their  eyes  of  hght  and  beauty. 

A  million  sleepless  lids,  they  say. 

Will  be  at  least  a  warning; 
And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn. 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning. 
The  flowers  still  watch  from  reddening  dawn 

Till  western  skies  are  burning. 

Alas!  each  hour  of  dayhght  tells 

A  tale  of  shame  so  crushing. 
That  some  turn  white  as  sea-bleached  shells. 

And  some  are  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down 

On  all  their  light  discovers. 
The  traitor's  smile,  the  murderer's  frown. 

The  lips  of  lying  lovers. 

They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes. 

And  in  the  vain  endeavor 
We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies, 

And  so  they  wink  forever. 

WHat  do  you  think  of  these  verses,  my  friends?  —  Is  that 
piece  an  impromptu?  said  my  landlady's  daughter.  (Aet.  19  + . 
Tender-eyed  blonde.  Long  ringlets.  Cameo  pin.  Gold  pencil- 
case  on  a  chain.  Locket.  Bracelet.  Album.  Autograph  book. 
Accordeon.  Reads  Byron,  Tupper,  and  Sylvanus  Cobb,  Junior, 
while  her  mother  makes  the  puddings.  Says  "Yes? "  when  you 
tell  her  anything.)  —  Oui  et  non,  ma  petite,  —  Yes  and  no,  my 
child.  Five  of  the  seven  verses  were  written  off-hand;  the  other 
two  took  a  week,  —  that  is,  were  hanging  round  the  desk  in  a 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  581 

ragged,  forlorn,  unrhymed  condition  as  long  as  that.  All  poets 
will  tell  you  just  such  stories.  Cest  le  dernier  pas  qui  coute} 
Don't  you  know  how  hard  it  is  for  some  people  to  get  out  of  a 
room  after  their  visit  is  really  over?  They  want  to  be  o£E,  and 
you  want  to  have  them  off,  but  they  don't  know  how  to  man- 
age it.  One  would  think  they  had  been  built  in  your  parlor  or 
study,  and  were  waiting  to  be  launched.  I  have  contrived  a 
sort  of  ceremonial  inclined  plane  for  such  visitors,  which  being 
lubricated  with  certain  smooth  phrases,  I  back  them  down, 
metaphorically  speaking,  stern-foremost,  into  their  ''native 
element,"  the  great  ocean  of  out-doors.  Well,  now,  there  are 
poems  as  hard  to  get  rid  of  as  these  rural  visitors.  They  come 
in  gHbly,  use  up  all  the  serviceable  rhymes,  day,  ray,  beauty, 
duty,  skies,  eyes,  other,  brother,  mountain,  fountain,  and  the  like; 
and  so  they  go  on  until  you  think  it  is  time  for  the  wind-up, 
and  the  wind-up  won't  come  on  any  terms.  So  they  lie  about 
imtil  you  get  sick  of  the  sight  of  them,  and  end  by  thrusting 
some  cold  scrap  of  a  final  couplet  upon  them,  and  turning  them 
out  of  doors.  I  suspect  a  good  many  "impromptus"  could  tell 
just  such  a  story  as  the  above.  —  Here  turning  to  our  landlady, 
I  used  an  illustration  which  pleased  the  company  much  at  the 
time,  and  has  since  been  highly  commended.  "Madam,"  I 
said,  "you  can  pour  three  gills  and  three  quarters  of  honey 
from  that  pint  jug,  if  it  is  full,  in  less  than  one  minute;  but, 
Madam,  you  could  not  empty  that  last  quarter  of  a  gill,  though 
you  were  turned  into  a  marble  Hebe,  and  held  the  vessel  upside 
down  for  a  thousand  years." 

One  gets  tired  to  death  of  the  old,  old  rhymes,  such  as  you  see 
in  that  copy  of  verses,  —  which  I  don't  mean  to  abuse,  or  to 
praise  either.  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were  a  cobbler,  putting  new 
top-leathers  to  an  old  pair  of  boot-soles  and  bodies,  when  I  am 
fitting  sentiments  to  these  venerable  jingles. 

youth 

morning 

truth 

warning. 

Nine  tenths  of  the  "Juvenile  Poems"  written  spring  out  of 
the  above  musical  and  suggestive  coincidences. 

1  "It's  the  last  step  that  costs." 


582  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

"Yes?"  said  our  landlady's  daughter. 

I  did  not  address  the  following  remark  to  her,  and  I  trust, 
from  her  limited  range  of  reading,  she  will  never  see  it;  I  said 
it  softly  to  my  next  neighbor. 

When  a  young  female  wears  a  flat  circular  side-curl,  gummed 
on  each  temple,  —  when  she  walks  with  a  male,  not  arm  in  arm, 
but  his  arm  against  the  back  of  hers,  —  and  when  she  says 
*'Yes?"  with  the  note  of  interrogation,  you  are  generally  safe 
in  asking  her  what  wages  she  gets,  and  who  the  ''feller"  was 
you  saw  her  with. 

"What  were  you  whispering?"  said  the  daughter  of  the 
house,  moistening  her  lips,  as  she  spoke,  in  a  very  engaging 
manner. 

"I  was  only  laying  down  a  principle  of  social  diagnosis." 

"Yes?" 

—  It  is  curious  to  see  how  the  same  wants  and  tastes  find  the 
same  implements  and  modes  of  expression  in  all  times  and 
places.  The  young  ladies  of  Otaheite,  as  you  may  see  in  Cook's 
Voyages,  had  a  sort  of  crinoline  arrangement  fully  equal  in 
radius  to  the  largest  spread  of  our  ow^n  lady-baskets.  When  I 
fling  a  Bay-State  shawl  over  my  shoulders,  I  am  only  taking  a 
lesson  from  the  climate  which  the  Indian  had  learned  before 
me.  A  blanket-shsiwl  we  call  it,  and  not  a  plaid;  and  we  wear 
it  like  the  aborigines,  and  not  like  the  Highlanders. 

—  We  are  the  Romans  of  the  modern  world,  —  the  great 
assimilating  people.  Conflicts  and  conquests  are  of  course 
necessary  accidents  with  us,  as  with  our  prototypes.  And  so 
we  come  to  their  style  of  weapon.  Our  army  sword  is  the  short, 
stiff,  pointed  gladius  of  the  Romans;  and  the  American  bowie- 
knife  is  the  same  tool,  modified  to  meet  the  daily  wants  of  civil 
society.  I  announce  at  this  table  an  axiom  not  to  be  found  in 
Montesquieu  or  the  journals  of  Congress :  — 

The  race  that  shortens  its  weapons  lengthens  its  boundaries. 
Corollary.   It  was  the  PoHsh  lance  that  left  Poland  at  last 
with  nothing  of  her  own  to  bound.        

"  Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear t "  ^ 

What  business  had  Sarmatia  to  be  fighting  for  liberty  with 
a  fifteen-foot  pole  between  her  and  the  breasts  of  her  enemies? 
If  she  had  but  clutched  the  old  Roman  and  young  American 
1  Campbell's  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope." 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  583 

weapon,  and  come  to  close  quarters,  there  might  have  been  a 
chance  for  her;  but  it  would  have  spoiled  the  best  passage  in 
"The  Pleasures  of  Hope." 

—  Self-made  men?  —  Well,  yes.  Of  course  everybody  likes 
and  respects  self-made  men.  It  is  a  great  deal  better  to  be  made 
in  that  way  than  not  to  be  made  at  all.  Are  any  of  you  younger 
people  old  enough  to  remember  that  Irishman's  house  on  the 
marsh  at  Cambridgeport,  which  house  he  built  from  drain  to 
chimney-top  with  his  own  hands?  It  took  him  a  good  many 
years  to  build  it,  and  one  could  see  that  it  was  a  Uttle  out  of 
plumb,  and  a  little  wavy  in  outline,  and  a  Uttle  queer  and  un- 
certain in  general  aspect.  A  regular  hand  could  certainly  have 
built  a  better  house;  but  it  was  a  very  good  house  for  a  "self- 
made"  carpenter's  house,  and  people  praised  it,  and  said  how 
remarkably  well  the  Irishman  had  succeeded.  They  never 
thought  of  praising  the  fine  blocks  of  houses  a  Httle  farther  on. 

Your  self-made  man,  whittled  into  shape  with  his  own  jack- 
knife,  deserves  more  credit,  if  that  is  all,  than  the  regular 
engine- turned  article,  shaped  by  the  most  approved  pattern, 
and  French-polished  by  society  and  travel.  But  as  to  saying 
that  one  is  every  way  the  equal  of  the  other,  that  is  another 
matter.  The  right  of  strict  social  discrimination  of  all  things 
and  persons,  according  to  their  merits,  native  or  acquired,  is 
one  of  the  most  precious  republican  privileges.  I  take  the  lib- 
erty to  exercise  it  when  I  say  that,  other  things  being  equal,  in 
most  relations  of  Hfe  I  prefer  a  man  of  family. 

What  do  I  mean  by  a  man  of  family?  —  O,  I'll  give  you  a 
general  idea  of  what  I  mean.  Let  us  give  him  a  first-rate  fit 
out;  it  costs  us  nothing. 

Four  or  five  generations  of  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen; 
among  them  a  member  of  his  Majesty's  Council  for  the  Prov- 
ince, a  Governor  or  so,  one  or  two  Doctors  of  Divinity,  a 
member  of  Congress,  not  later  than  the  time  of  long  boots  with 
tassels. 

Family  portraits.^  The  member  of  the  Council,  by  Smibert. 

^  The  full-length  pictures  by  Copley  I  was  thinking  of  are  such  as  may  be  seen 
in  the  Memorial  Hall  of  Harvard  University,  but  many  are  to  be  met  with  in 
different  parts  of  New  England,  sometimes  in  the  possession  of  the  poor  descend- 
ants of  the  rich  gentlefolks  in  lace  ruffles  and  glistening  satins,  grandees  and 
grand  dames  of  the  ante-Revolutionary  period.  I  remember  one  poor  old  gentle- 
man who  had  nothing  left  of  his  family  possessions  but  the  full-length  portraits 


584  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

The  great  merchant-uncle,  by  Copley,  full  length,  sitting  in  his 
arm-chair,  in  a  velvet  cap  and  flowered  robe,  with  a  globe  by 
him,  to  show  the  range  of  his  commercial  transactions,  and  let- 
ters with  large  red  seals  lying  round,  one  directed  conspicuously 
to  The  Honorable,  etc.,  etc.  Great-grandmother,  by  the  same 
artist;  brown  satin,  lace  very  fine,  hands  superlative;  grand  old 
lady,  stiffish,  but  imposing.  Her  mother,  artist  unknown;  flat, 
angular,  hanging  sleeves;  parrot  on  fist.  A  pair  of  Stuarts, 
viz.,  I.  A  superb,  full-blown,  mediaeval  gentleman,  with  a  fiery 
dash  of  Tory  blood  in  his  veins,  tempered  down  with  that  of  a 
fine  old  rebel  grandmother,  and  warmed  up  with  the  best  of  old 
India  Madeira;  his  face  is  one  flame  of  ruddy  sunshine;  his 
ruffled  shirt  rushes  out  of  his  bosom  with  an  impetuous  gener- 
osity, as  if  it  would  drag  his  heart  after  it;  and  his  smile  is  good 
for  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  the  Hospital,  besides  ample 
bequests  to  all  relatives  and  dependants.  2.  Lady  of  the  same; 
remarkable  cap;  high  waist,  as  in  time  of  Empire;  bust  a  la 
Josephine;  wisps  of  curls,  like  celery-tips,  at  sides  of  forehead; 
complexion  clear  and  warm,  like  rose-cordial.  As  for  the  minia- 
tures by  Malbone,  we  don't  count  them  in  the  gallery. 

Books,  too,  with  the  names  of  old  college-students  in  them, 
—  family  names;  —  you  will  find  them  at  the  head  of  their 
respective  classes  in  the  days  when  students  took  rank  on  the 

of  his  ancestors,  the  Counsellor  and  his  lady,  saying,  with  a  gleam  of  the  pleas- 
antry which  had  come  down  from  the  days  of  Mather  Byles,  and  "Balch  the 
Hatter,"  and  Sigoumey,  that  he  fared  not  so  badly  after  all,  for  he  had  a  pair  of 
canvas-backs  every  day  through  the  whole  year. 

The  mention  of  these  names,  all  of  which  are  mere  traditions  to  myself  and 
my  contemporaries,  reminds  me  of  the  long  succession  of  wits  and  humorists 
whose  companionship  has  been  the  delight  of  their  generation,  and  who  leave 
nothing  on  record  by  which  they  will  be  remembered;  Yoricks  who  set  the  tabl< 
in  a  roar,  story-tellers  who  gave  us  scenes  of  life  in  monologue  better  than  th( 
stilted  presentments  of  the  stage,  and  those  always  welcome  friends  with  social 
interior  furnishings,  whose  smile  provoked  the  wit  of  others  and  whose  rich, 
musical  laughter  was  its  abundant  reward.  Who  among  us  in  my  earlier  days 
ever  told  a  story  or  carolled  a  rippling  chanson  so  gayly,  so  easily,  so  charmingly 
as  John  Sullivan,  whose  memory  is  like  the  breath  of  a  long  bygone  summer? 
Mr.  Arthur  Gilman  has  left  his  monument  in  the  stately  structures  he  planned; 
Mr.  James  T.  Fields  in  the  pleasant  volumes  full  of  precious  recollections;  but 
twenty  or  thirty  years  from  now  old  men  will  tell  their  boys  that  the  Yankee 
story-teller  died  with  the  first,  and  that  the  chief  of  our  literary  reminiscents, 
whose  ideal  portrait  gallery  reached  from  Wordsworth  to  Swinburne,  left  us 
when  the  second  bowed  his  head  and  "fell  on  sleep,"  no  longer  to  delight  the 
guests  whom  his  hospitality  gathered  around  him  with  the  pictures  to  which 
his  lips  gave  life  and  action,  [Author's  aotej. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  585 

catalogue  from  their  parents'  conditior;.  Elzevirs,  with  the 
Latinized  appellations  of  youthful  progenitors,  and  Hie  liber 
est  meiis^  on  the  title-page.  A  set  of  Hogarth's  original  plates. 
Pope,  original  edition,  15  volumes,  London,  171 7.  Barrow  on 
the  lower  shelves,  in  folio.  Tillotson  on  the  upper,  in  a  little 
dark  platoon  of  octo-decimos. 

Some  family  silver;  a  string  of  wedding  and  funeral  rings; 
the  arms  of  the  family  curiously  blazoned ;  the  same  in  worsted, 
by  a  maiden  aunt. 

If  the  man  of  family  has  an  old  place  to  keep  these  things  in, 
furnished  with  claw-footed  chairs  and  black  mahogany  tables, 
and  tall  bevel-edged  mirrors,  and  stately  upright  cabinets,  his 
outfit  is  complete. 

No,  my  friends,  I  go  (always,  other  things  being  equal),  for 
the  man  who  inherits  family  traditions  and  the  cumulative 
humanities  of  at  least  four  or  five  generations.  Above  all 
things,  as  a  child,  he  should  have  tumbled  about  in  a  library. 
All  men  are  afraid  of  books,  who  have  not  handled  them  from 
infancy.  Do  you  suppose  our  dear  didascalos^  over  there  ever 
read  Poll  Synopsis,  or  consulted  Castelli  Lexicon,  while  he  was 
growing  up  to  their  stature?  Not  he;  but  virtue  passed  through 
the  hem  of  their  parchment  and  leather  garments  whenever  he 
touched  them,  as  the  precious  drugs  sweated  through  the  bat's 
handle  in  the  Arabian  story.  I  tell  you  he  is  at  home  wherever 
he  smells  the  invigorating  fragrance  of  Russia  leather.  No  self- 
made  man  feels  so.  One  may,  it  is  true,  have  all  the  antecedents 
I  have  spoken  of,  and  yet  be  a  boor  or  a  shabby  fellow.  One  may 
have  none  of  them,  and  yet  be  fit  for  councils  and  courts.  Then 
let  them  change  places.  Our  social  arrangement  has  this  great 
beauty,  that  its  strata  shift  up  and  down  as  they  change  specific 
gravity,  without  being  clogged  by  layers  of  prescription.  But  I 
still  insist  on  my  democratic  fiber ty  of  choice,  and  I  go  for  the 
man  with  the  gallery  of  family  portraits  against  the  one  with 

^  "  This  book  is  mine." 

2  "Our  dear  didascalos"  was  meant  for  Professor  James  Russell  Lowell,  now 
Minister  to  England.  It  requires  the  union  of  exceptional  native  gifts  and  gen- 
erations of  training  to  bring  the  "natural  man "  of  New  England  to  the  complete- 
ness of  scholarly  manhood,  such  as  that  which  adds  new  distinction  to  the  name 
he  bears,  already  remarkable  for  its  successive  generations  of  eminent  citizens. 

"Self-made"  is  imperfectly  made,  or  education  is  a  superfluity  and  a  failure. 
[Author's  note.]  Didascalos  means  "  teacher," 


586  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

the  twenty-five-cent  daguerreotype,  unless  I  find  out  that  the 
last  is  the  better  of  the  two. 

—  I  should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the  late  comet, 
if  I  had  thought  the  world  was  ripe.  But  it  is  very  green  yet,  if 
I  am  not  mistaken;  and  besides,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  coal  to 
use  up,  which  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  was  made  for 
nothing.  If  certain  things,  which  seem  to  me  essential  to  a 
millennium,  had  come  to  pass,  I  should  have  been  frightened; 
but  they  have  n't.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  my 

LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 

When  berries,  whortle  —  rasp  —  and  straw  — 
Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box,  — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 

Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 
When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 

And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 
When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 

From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give. 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live. 
Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience'  sake,  — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 

Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 
Without  a  He  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 

The  power  of  suction  to  resist. 
And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  587 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 
Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  tunnel's  bore;  —  ^ 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away. 

And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe; 
But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 

Then  order  your  ascension  robe! 

The  company  seemed  to  like  the  verses,  and  I  promised  them 
to  read  others  occasionally,  if  they  had  a  mind  to  hear  them. 
Of  course  they  would  not  expect  it  every  morning.  Neither 
must  the  reader  suppose  that  all  these  things  I  have  reported 
were  said  at  any  one  breakfast-time.  I  have  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  date  them,  as  Raspail,  pere,  used  to  date  every  proof 
he  sent  to  the  printer;  but  they  were  scattered  over  several 
breakfasts;  and  I  have  said  a  good  many  more  things  since, 
which  I  shall  very  possibly  print  some  time  or  other,  if  I  am 
urged  to  do  it  by  judicious  friends. 

I  finished  off  with  reading  some  verses  of  my  friend  the 
Professor,  of  whom  you  may  perhaps  hear  more  by  and  by. 
The  Professor  read  them,  he  told  me,  at  a  farewell  meeting, 
where  the  youngest  of  our  great  historians^  met  a  few  of  his 
many  friends  at  their  invitation. 

Yes,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  —  though  friendship  may  claim 
To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels  of  fame; 
Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 
*T  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  who  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel,  — 
As  the  guardsman  who  sleeps  in  his  corselet  of  steel,  — 
As  the  archer  who  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the  string, 
He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 

1  This  hoped  for,  but  almost  despaired  of,  event,  occurred  on  the  gth  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1875.  The  writer  of  the  above  lines  was  as  much  pleased  as  his  fellow- 
citizens  at  the  termination  of  an  enterprise  which  gave  constant  occasion  for 
the  most  inveterate  pun  on  record.  When  the  other  conditions  referred  to  are  as 
happily  fulfilled  as  this  has  been,  he  will  still  say  as  before,  that  it  is  time  for  the 
ascension  garment  to  be  ordered.  [Author's  note.] 

'  "The  youngest  of  our  great  historians,"  referred  to  in  the  poem,  was  John 
Lothrop  Motley.  His  career  of  authorship  was  as  successful  as  it  was  noble,  and 
his  works  are  among  the  chief  ornaments  of  our  national  literature.  Are  Repub- 
lics still  ungrateful,  as  of  old?  [Author's  note.l 


S88  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom 

Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their  beauties  shall  bloom. 

While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  Hfe-glowing  dyes 

That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 
Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and  crime. 
There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  unsung, 
There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  bequeathed 
From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  freedom  they  breathed! 
Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom. 
Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  Uke  Van  Tromp  with  his  broom! 

The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain  and  lake, 
To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea-girdled  shrine, 
With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were  trampled  and  crushed: 
The  True  Knight  of  Learning,  —  the  world  holds  him  dear,  — 
Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  his  career! 


II 

I  really  believe  some  people  save  their  bright  thoughts  as 
being  too  precious  for  conversation.  What  do  you  think  an 
admiring  friend  said  the  other  day  to  one  that  was  talking 
good  things,  — good  enough  to  print?  ''Why,"  said  he,  *'you 
are  wasting  merchantable  literature,  a  cash  article,  at  the  rate, 
as  nearly  as  I  can  tell,  of  fifty  dollars  an  hour."  The  talker  took 
him  to  the  window  and  asked  him  to  look  out  and  tell  what  he 
saw. 

''Nothing  but  a  very  dusty  street,"  he  said,  "and  a  man 
driving  a  sprinkling-machine  through  it." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that  water?  What 
would  be  the  state  of  the  highways  of  life,  if  we  did  not  drive 
our  thought-sprinklers  through  them  with  the  .valves  open, 
sometimes? 

"Besides,  there  is  another  thing  about  this  talking,  which 
you  forget.  It  shapes  our  thoughts  for  us;  —  the  waves  of  con- 
versation roll  them  as  the  surf  rolls  the  pebbles  on  the  shore. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  589 

Let  me  modify  the  image  a  little.  I  rough  out  my  thoughts  in 
talk  as  an  artist  models  in  clay.  Spoken  language  is  so  plastic, 
—  you  can  pat  and  coax,  and  spread  and  shave,  and  rub  out, 
and  fill  up,  and  stick  on  so  easily,  when  you  work  that  soft, 
material,  that  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  modelling.  Out  of  it 
come  the  shapes  which  you  turn  into  marble  or  bronze  in  your 
immortal  books,  if  you  happen  to  write  such.  Or,  to  use  an- 
other illustration,  writing  or  printing  is  like  shooting  with  a 
rifle;  you  may  hit  your  reader's  mind,  or  miss  it;  —  but  talk- 
ing is  like  playing  at  a  mark  with  the  pipe  of  an  engine;  if  it 
is  within  reach,  and  you  have  time  enough,  you  can't  help 
hitting  it." 

The  company  agreed  that  this  last  illustration  was  of  supe- 
rior excellence,  or,  in  the  phrase  used  by  them,  "Fust-rate." 
I  acknowledged  the  compliment,  but  gently  rebuked  the  ex- 
pression. "Fust-rate,"  "prime,"  "a  prime  article,"  "a  superior 
piece  of  goods,"  "a  handsome  garment,"  "a  gent  in  a  flowered 
vest,"  —  all  such  expressions  are  final.  They  blast  the  lineage 
of  him  or  her  who  utters  them,  for  generations  up  and  down. 
There  is  one  other  phrase  which  will  soon  come  to  be  decisive 
of  a  man's  social  status,  if  it  is  not  already.  "That  tells  the 
whole  story."  It  is  an  expression  which  vulgar  and  conceited 
people  particularly  affect,  and  which  well-meaning  ones,  who 
know  better,  catch  from  them.  It  is  intended  to  stop  all  debate, 
like  the  previous  question  in  the  General  Court.  Only  it  does 
n't;  simply  because  "that"  does  not  usually  tell  the  whole,  nor 
one  half  of  the  whole  story. 

—  It  is  an  odd  idea,  that  almost  all  our  people  have  had  a 
professional  education.  To  become  a  doctor  a  man  must  study 
some  three  years  and  hear  a  thousand  lectures,  more  or  less. 
Just  how  much  study  it  takes  to  make  a  lawyer  I  cannot  say, 
but  probably  not  more  than  this.  Now,  most  decent  people 
hear  one  hundred  lectures  or  sermons  (discourses)  on  theology 
every  year,  —  and  this,  twenty,  thirty,  fifty  years  together. 
They  read  a  great  many  religious  books  besides.  The  clergy, 
however,  rarely  hear  any  sermons  except  what  they  preach 
themselves.  A  dull  preacher  might  be  conceived,  therefore,  to 
lapse  into  a  state  of  quasi  heathenism,  simply  for  want  of  reli- 
gious instruction.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  an  attentive  and 
intelligent  hearer,  listening  to  a  succession  of  wise  teachers, 


590  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

might  become  actually  better  educated  in  theology  than  any 
one  of  them.  We  are  all  theological  students,  and  more  of  us 
qualified  as  doctors  of  divinity  than  have  received  degrees  at 
any  of  the  universities. 

It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  very  good  people  should 
often  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  keep  their  attention 
fixed  upon  a  sermon  treating  feebly  a  subject  which  they  have 
thought  vigorously  about  for  years,  and  heard  able  men  discuss 
scores  of  times.  I  have  often  noticed,  however,  that  a  hope- 
lessly dull  discourse  acts  inductively,  as  electricians  would  say, 
in  developing  strong  mental  currents.  I  am  ashamed  to  think 
with  what  accompaniments  and  variations  and  flourishes  I 
have  sometimes  followed  the  droning  of  a  heavy  speaker,  — 
not  willingly,  —  for  my  habit  is  reverential,  —  but  as  a  neces- 
sary result  of  a  slight  continuous  impression  on  the  senses  and 
the  mind,  which  kept  both  in  action  without  furnishing  the 
food  they  required  to  work  upon.  If  you  ever  saw  a  crow  with 
a  king-bird  after  him,  you  will  get  an  image  of  a  dull  speaker 
and  a  lively  listener.  The  bird  in  sable  plumage  flaps  heavily 
along  his  straightforward  course,  while  the  other  sails  round 
him,  over  him,  under  him,  leaves  him,  comes  back  again, 
tweaks  out  a  black  feather,  shoots  away  once  more,  never  los- 
ing sight  of  him,  and  finally  reaches  the  crow's  perch  at  the 
same  time  the  crow  does,  having  cut  a  perfect  labyrinth  of 
loops  and  knots  and  spirals  while  the  slow  fowl  was  painfully 
working  from  one  end  of  his  straight  line  to  the  other. 

[I  think  these  remarks  were  received  rather  coolly.  A  tem- 
porary boarder  from  the  country,  consisting  of  a  somewhat 
more  than  middle-aged  female,  with  a  parchment  forehead  and 
a  dry  little  "frisette"  shingling  it,  a  sallow  neck  with  a  neck- 
lace of  gold  beads,  a  black  dress  too  rusty  for  recent  grief,  and 
contours  in  basso-riHevo,  left  the  table  prematurely,  and  was 
reported  to  have  been  very  virulent  about  what  I  said.  So  I 
went  to  my  good  old  minister,  and  repeated  the  remarks,  as 
nearly  as  I  could  remember  them,  to  him.  He  laughed  good- 
naturedly,  and  said  there  was  considerable  truth  in  them.  He 
thought  he  could  tell  when  people's  minds  were  wandering,  by 
their  looks.  In  the  earlier  years  of  his  ministry  he  had  some- 
times noticed  this,  when  he  was  preaching;  —  very  Httle  of 
late  years.   Sometimes,  when  his  colleague  was  preaching,  he 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  591 

observed  this  kind  of  inattention;  but  after  all,  it  was  not  so 
very  unnatural.  I  will  say,  by  the  way,  that  it  is  a  rule  I  have 
long  followed,  to  tell  my  worst  thoughts  to  my  minister,  and 
my  best  thoughts  to  the  young  people  I  talk  with.] 

—  I  want  to  make  a  literary  confession  now,  which  I  believe 
nobody  has  made  before  me.  You  know  very  well  that  I  write 
verses  sometimes,  because  I  have  read  some  of  them  at  this 
table.  (The  company  assented,  —  two  or  three  of  them  in  a 
resigned  sort  of  way,  as  I  thought,  as  if  they  supposed  I  had  an 
epic  in  my  pocket,  and  were  going  to  read  half  a  dozen  books  or 
so  for  their  benefit.)  —  I  continued.  Of  course  I  write  some 
lines  or  passages  which  are  better  than  others;  some  which, 
compared  with  the  others,  might  be  called  relatively  excellent. 
It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  I  should  consider  these  rela- 
tively excellent  lines  or  passages  as  absolutely  good.  So  much 
must  be  pardoned  to  humanity.  Now  I  never  wrote  a  "good" 
line  in  my  life,  but  the  moment  after  it  was  written  it  seemed  a 
hundred  years  old.  Very  commonly  I  had  a  sudden  conviction 
that  I  had  seen  it  somewhere.  Possibly  I  may  have  sometimes 
imconsciously  stolen  it,  but  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  once 
detected  any  historical  truth  in  these  sudden  convictions  of  the 
antiquity  of  my  new  thought  or  phrase.  I  have  learned  utterly 
to  distrust  them,  and  never  allow  them  to  bully  me  out  of  a 
thought  or  Hne. 

This  is  the  philosophy  of  it.  (Here  the  nimiber  of  the  com- 
pany was  diminished  by  a  small  secession.)  Any  new  formula 
which  suddenly  emerges  in  our  consciousness  has  its  roots  in 
long  trains  of  thought;  it  is  virtually  old  when  it  first  makes  its 
appearance  among  the  recognized  growths  of  our  intellect. 
Any  crystalline  group  of  musical  words  has  had  a  long  and  still 
period  to  form  in.  Here  is  one  theory. 

But  there  is  a  larger  law  which  perhaps  comprehends  these 
facts.  It  is  this.  The  rapidity  with  which  ideas  grow  old  in  our 
memories  is  in  a  direct  ratio  to  the  squares  of  their  importance. 
Their  apparent  age  rims  up  miraculously,  like  the  value  of  dia- 
monds, as  they  increase  in  magnitude.  A  great  calamity,  for 
instance,  is  as  old  as  the  trilobites  an  hour  after  it  has  happened. 
It  stains  backward  through  all  the  leaves  we  have  turned  over 
in  the  book  of  Hfe,  before  its  blot  of  tears  or  of  blood  is  dry  on 
the  page  we  are  turning.  For  this  we  seem  to  have  lived;  it  was 


592  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

foreshadowed  in  dreams  that  we  leaped  out  of  in  the  cold  sweat 
of  terror;  in  the  ''dissolving  views"  of  dark  day- visions;  all 
omens  pointed  to  it;  all  paths  led  to  it.  After  the  tossing  half- 
forgetfulness  of  the  first  sleep  that  follows  such  an  event,  it 
comes  upon  us  afresh,  as  a  surprise,  at  waking;  in  a  few  mo- 
ments it  is  old  again,  —  old  as  eternity. 

[I  wish  I  had  not  said  all  this  then  and  there.  I  might  have 
known  better.  The  pale  schoolmistress,  in  her  mourning  dress, 
was  looking  at  me,  as  I  noticed,  with  a  wild  sort  of  expression. 
All  at  once  the  blood  dropped  out  of  her  cheeks  as  the  mercury 
drops  from  a  broken  barometer-tube,  and  she  melted  away  from 
her  seat  Hke  an  image  of  snow;  a  slung-shot  could  not  have 
brought  her  down  better.   God  forgive  me! 

After  this  Httle  episode,  I  continued,  to  some  few  who  re- 
mained balancing  teaspoons  on  the  edges  of  cups,  twirling 
knives,  or  tilting  upon  the  hind  legs  of  their  chairs  until  their 
heads  reached  the  wall,  where  they  left  gratuitous  advertise- 
ments of  various  popular  cosmetics.] 

When  a  person  is  suddenly  thrust  into  any  strange,  new  posi- 
tion of  trial,  he  finds  the  place  fits  him  as  if  he  had  been  meas- 
ured for  it.  He  has  committed  a  great  crime,  for  instance,  and 
is  sent  to  the  State  Prison.  The  traditions,  prescriptions,  limi- 
tations, privileges,  all  the  sharp  conditions  of  his  new  Hfe,  stamp 
themselves  upon  his  consciousness  as  the  signet  on  soft  wax; 
—  a  single  pressure  is  enough.  Let  me  strengthen  the  image 
a  little.  Did  you  ever  happen  to  see  that  most  soft-spoken  and 
velvet-handed  steam-engine  at  the  Mint?  The  smooth  piston 
slides  backward  and  forward  as  a  lady  might  slip  her  deHcate 
finger  in  and  out  of  a  ring.  The  engine  lays  one  of  its  fingers 
calmly,  but  firmly,  upon  a  bit  of  metal;  it  is  a  coin  now,  and 
will  remember  that  touch,  and  tell  a  new  race  about  it,  when 
the  date  upon  it  is  crusted  over  with  twenty  centuries.  So  it  is 
that  a  great  silent-moving  misery  puts  a  new  stamp  on  us  in  an 
hour  or  a  moment,  —  as  sharp  an  impression  as  if  it  had  taken 
half  a  lifetime  to  engrave  it. 

It  is  awful  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  wholesale  professional 
dealers  in  misfortune;  undertakers  and  jailers  magnetize  you 
in  a  moment,  and  you  pass  out  of  the  individual  life  you  were 
living  into  the  rhythmical  movements  of  their  horrible  machin- 
ery. Do  the  worst  thing  you  can,  or  suffer  the  worst  that  can 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  593 

be  thought  of,  you  find  yourself  in  a  category  of  humanity  that 
stretches  back  as  far  as  Cain,  and  with  an  expert  at  your  elbow 
who  has  studied  your  case  all  out  beforehand,  and  is  waiting 
for  you  with  his  implements  of  hemp  or  mahogany.  I  beheve, 
if  a  man  were  to  be  burned  in  any  of  our  cities  to-morrow  for 
heresy,  there  would  be  found  a  master  of  ceremonies  who  knew 
just  how  many  fagots  were  necessary,  and  the  best  way  of 
arranging  the  whole  matter.^ 

—  So  we  have  not  won  the  Goodwood  cup;  au  contraire,  we 
were  a  ''bad  fifth,"  if  not  worse  than  that;  and  trying  it  again, 
and  the  third  time,  has  not  yet  bettered  the  matter.  Now  I  am 
as  patriotic  as  any  of  my  fellow-citizens,  —  too  patriotic  in 
fact,  for  I  have  got  into  hot  water  by  loving  too  much  of  my 
coimtry ;  in  short,  if  any  man,  whose  fighting  weight  is  not  more 
than  eight  stone  four  pounds,  disputes  it,  I  am  ready  to  discuss 
the  point  with  him.  I  should,  have  gloried  to  see  the  stars  and 
stripes  in  front  at  the  finish.  I  love  my  country  and  I  love 
horses.  Stubbs's  old  mezzotint  of  Eclipse  hangs  over  my  desk, 
and  Herring's  p>ortrait  of  Plenipotentiary  —  whom  I  saw  run 
at  Epsom  —  over  my  fireplace.  Did  I  not  elope  from  school  to 
see  Revenge,  and  Prospect,  and  Little  John,  and  Peacemaker 
nm  over  the  race-course  where  now  yon  suburban  village  flour- 
ishes, in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ever-so-few?  Though  I 
never  owned  a  horse,  have  I  not  been  the  proprietor  of  six 
equine  females,  of  which  one  was  the  prettiest  little  ''Morgin" 
that  ever  stepped?  Listen,  then,  to  an  opinion  I  have  often 
expressed  long  before  this  venture  of  ours  in  England.  Horse- 
racing  is  not  a  repubHcan  institution;  horse-trotting  is.  Only 
very  rich  persons  can  keep  race-horses,  and  everybody  knows 

*  Accidents  are  liable  to  happen  if  no  thoroughly  trained  expert  happens  to  be 
present.  When  Catharine  Hays  was  burnt  at  Tyburn,  in  1726,*  the  officiating 
artist  scorched  his  o\sti  hands,  and  the  whole  business  was  awkwardly  managed 
for  want  of  practical  familiarity  with  the  process.  We  have  still  remaining  a 
guide  to  direct  us  in  one  important  part  of  the  arrangements.  Bishop  Hooper 
was  burned  at  Gloucester,  England,  in  the  year  1555.  A  few  years  ago,  in  making 
certain  excavations,  the  charred  stump  of  the  stake  to  which  he  was  bound  was 
discovered.  An  account  of  the  interesting  ceremony,  so  important  in  ecclesi- 
astical history  —  the  argumentiim  ad  ignem,  with  a  photograph  of  the  half- 
burned  stick  of  timber  was  sent  me  by  my  friend,  Mr.  John  Bellows,  of  Glouces- 
ter, a  zealous  antiquarian,  widely  known  by  his  wonderful  miniature  French 
dictionary,  one  of  the  scholarly  printers  and  publishers  who  honor  the  calling  of 
Aldus  and  the  Elzevirs.  The  stake  was  big  enough  to  chain  the  whole  Bench  of 
Bishops  to  as  fast  as  the  Athanasian  creed  holds  them.  [Author's  note.] 


594  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

they  are  kept  mainly  as  gambling  implements.  All  that  matter 
about  blood  and  speed  we  won't  discuss;  we  understand  all 
that;  useful,  very,  —  of  course,  —  great  obligations  to  the 
Godolphin  ''Arabian,"  and  the  rest.  I  say  racing-horses  are 
essentially  gambling  implements,  as  much  as  roulette  tables. 
Now,  I  am  not  preaching  at  this  moment;  I  may  read  you  one 
of  my  sermons  some  other  morning;  but  I  maintain  that  gam- 
bling, on  the  great  scale,  is  not  repubUcan.  It  belongs  to  two 
phases  of  society,  —  a  cankered  over-civilization,  such  as  ex- 
ists in  rich  aristocracies,  and  the  reckless  life  of  borderers  and 
adventurers,  or  the  semi-barbarism  of  a  civilization  resolved 
into  its  primitive  elements.  Real  Republicanism  is  stern  and 
severe;  its  essence  is  not  in  forms  of  government,  but  in  the 
omnipotence  of  public  opinion  which  grows  out  of  it.  This 
public  opinion  cannot  prevent  gambling  with  dice  or  stocks, 
but  it  can  and  does  compel  it  to  keep  comparatively  quiet.  But 
horse-racing  is  the  most  public  way  of  gambHng,  and  with  all 
its  immense  attractions  to  the  sense  and  the  feelings,  —  to 
which  I  plead  very  susceptible,  —  the  disguise  is  too  thin  that 
covers  it,  and  everybody  knows  what  it  means.  Its  supporters 
are  the  Southern  gentry,  —  fine  fellows,  no  doubt,  but  not 
repubHcans  exactly,  as  we  understand  the  term,  —  a  few 
Northern  millionnaires  more  or  less  thoroughly  milHoned,  who 
do  not  represent  the  real  people,  and  the  mob  of  sporting  men, 
the  best  of  whom  are  commonly  idlers,  and  the  worst  very  bad 
neighbors  to  have  near  one  in  a  crowd,  or  to  meet  in  a  dark 
alley.  In  England,  on  the  other  hand,  with  its  aristocratic  insti- 
tutions, racing  is  a  natural  growth  enough;  the  passion  for  it 
spreads  downwards  through  all  classes,  from  the  Queen  to  the 
costermonger.  London  is  like  a  shelled  corn-cob  on  the  Derby 
day,  and  there  is  not  a  clerk  who  could  raise  the  money  to  hire 
a  saddle  with  an  old  hack  under  it  that  can  sit  down  on  his 
office-stool  the  next  day  without  wincing. 

Now  just  compare  the  racer  with  the  trotter  for  a  moment. 
The  racer  is  incidentally  useful,  but  essentially  something  to 
bet  upon,  as  much  as  the  thimble-rigger's  ''little  joker."  The 
trotter  is  essentially  and  daily  useful,  and  only  incidentally  a 
tool  for  sporting  men. 

What  better  reason  do  you  want  for  the  fact  that  the  racer  is 
most  cultivated  and  reaches  his  greatest  perfection  in  England, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  595 

and  that  the  trotting  horses  of  America  beat  the  world?  And 
why  should  we  have  expected  that  the  pick  —  if  it  was  the  pick 

—  of  our  few  and  far-between  racing  stables  should  beat  the 
pick  of  England  and  France?  Throw  over  the  fallacious  time- 
test,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a  natural  kind 
of  patriotic  feeling,  which  we  all  Have,  with  a  thoroughly  pro- 
vincial conceit,  which  some  of  us  must  plead  guilty  to. 

We  may  beat  yet.^  As  an  American,  I  hope  we  shall.  As  a 
moralist  and  occasional  sermonizer,  I  am  not  so  anxious  about 
it.  Wherever  the  trotting  horse  goes,  he  carries  in  his  train  brisk 
omnibuses,  lively  bakers'  carts,  and  therefore  hot  rolls,  the  jolly 
butcher's  wagon,  the  cheerful  gig,  the  wholesome  afternoon 
drive  with  wife  and  child,  —  all  the  forms  of  moral  excellence, 
except  truth,  which  does  not  agree  with  any  kind  of  horse-flesh. 
The  racer  brings  with  him  gambhng,  cursing,  swearing,  drink- 
ing, and  a  distaste  for  mob-caps  and  the  middle-aged  virtues. 

And  by  the  way,  let  me  beg  you  not  to  call  a  trotting  match 
a  race,  and  not  to  speak  of  a  ''thoroughbred"  as  a  ^' blooded'^ 
horse,  unless  he  has  been  recently  phlebotomized.  I  consent  to 
your  saying  ''blood  horse,"  if  you  like.  Also,  if,  next  year,  we 
send  out  Posterior  and  Posterior  ess,  the  winners  of  the  great 
national  four-mile  race  in  7  :i8^,  and  they  happen  to  get  beaten, 
pay  your  bets,  and  behave  like  men  and  gentlemen  about  it, 
if  you  know  how. 

[I  felt  a  great  deal  better  after  blowing  o£E  the  ill-temper  con- 
densed in  the  above  paragraph.  To  brag  little,  —  to  show  well, 

—  to  crow  gently,  if  in  luck,  —  to  pay  up,  to  own  up,  and  to 
shut  up,  if  beaten,  are  the  virtues  of  a  sporting  man,  and  I  can't 

1  We  have  beaten  in  many  races  in  England  since  this  was  written,  and  at 
last  carried  ofif  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  turf  at  Epsom.  But  up  to  the  present  time 
trotting  matches  and  baseball  are  distinctively  American,  as  contrasted  with 
running  races  and  cricket,  which  belong,  as  of  right,  to  England.  The  wonderful 
effects  of  breeding  and  training  in  a  particular  direction  are  shown  in  the  records 
of  the  trotting  horse.  In  1844  Lady  Suffolk  trotted  a  mile  in  2:26^,  which  was, 
I  think,  the  fastest  time  to  that  date.  In  1859  Flora  Temple's  time  at  Kalamazoo 

—  I  remember  Mr.  Emerson  surprised  me  once  by  correcting  my  error  of  a 
quarter  of  a  second  in  mentioning  it  —  was  2:19!.  Dexter  in  1867  brought  the 
figure  down  to  2 -.17  J.  There  is  now  a  whole  class  of  horses  that  can  trot  under 
2:20,  and  in  1881  Maud  S.  distanced  all  previous  records  with  2:10^.  Many  of 
our  best  running  horses  go  to  England.  Racing  in  distinction  from  trotting,  I 
think,  attracts  less  attention  in  this  country  now  than  in  the  days  of  American 
Eclipse  and  Henry.  [Author's  note.] 


596  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

say  that  I  think  we  have  shown  them  in  any  great  perfection  of 
late.] 

—  Apropos  of  horses.  Do  you  know  how  important  good 
jockeying  is  to  authors?  Judicious  management;  letting  the 
public  see  your  animal  just  enough,  and  not  too  much;  holding 
him  up  hard  when  the  market  is  too  full  of  him ';  letting  him  out 
at  just  the  right  buying  intervals;  always  gently  feeling  his 
mouth;  never  slacking  and  never  jerking  the  rein;  —  this  is 
what  I  mean  by  jockeying. 

—  When  an  author  has  a  number  of  books  out  a  cunning 
hand  will  keep  them  all  spinning,  as  Signor  Blitz  does  his  dinner- 
plates;  fetching  each  one  up,  as  it  begins  to  "wabble,"  by  an 
advertisement,  a  puff,  or  a  quotation. 

—  Whenever  the  extracts  from  a  living  writer  begin  to  mul- 
tiply fast  in  the  papers,  without  obvious  reason,  there  is  a  new 
book  or  a  new  edition  coming.  The  extracts  are  ground-bait. 

—  Literary  Hfe  is  full  of  curious  phenomena.  I  don't  know 
that  there  is  anything  more  noticeable  than  what  we  may  call 
conventional  reputations.  There  is  a  tacit  understanding  in 
every  community  of  men  of  letters  that  they  will  not  disturb 
the  popular  fallacy  respecting  this  or  that  electro-gilded 
celebrity.  There  are  various  reasons  for  this  forbearance:  one 
is  old;  one  is  rich;  one  is  good-natured;  one  is  such  a  favorite 
with  the  pit  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  hiss  him  from  the  man- 
ager's box.  The  venerable  augurs  of  the  hterary  or  scientific 
temple  may  smile  faintly  when  one  of  the  tribe  is  mentioned; 
but  the  farce  is  in  general  kept  up  as  well  as  the  Chinese  comic 
scene  of  entreating  and  imploring  a  man  to  stay  with  you,  with 
the  implied  compact  between  you  that  he  shall  by  no  means 
think  of  doing  it.  A  poor  wretch  he  must  be  who  would  wan- 
tonly sit  down  on  one  of  these  bandbox  reputations.  A  Prince- 
Rupert's-drop,  which  is  a  tear  of  unannealed  glass,  lasts  indefi- 
nitely, if  you  keep  it  from  meddling  hands;  but  break  its  tail 
off,  and  it  explodes  and  resolves  itself  into  powder.  These  ce- 
lebrities I  speak  of  are  the  Prince-Rupert's-drops  of  the  learned 
and  polite  world.  See  how  the  papers  treat  them!  What  an 
array  of  pleasant  kaleidoscopic  phrases,  which  can  be  arranged 
in  ever  so  many  charming  patterns,  is  at  their  service!  How 
kind  the  "Critical  Notices"  —  where  small  authorship  comes 
to  pick  up  chips  of  praise,  fragrant,  sugary,  and  sappy — always 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  597 

are  to  them!  Well,  life  would  be  nothing  without  paper-credit 
and  other  fictions;  so  let  them  pass  current.  Don't  steal  their 
chips;  don't  puncture  their  swimming-bladders;  don't  come 
down  on  their  pasteboard  boxes;  don't  break  the  ends  of  their 
brittle  and  unstable  reputations,  you  fellows  who  all  feel  sure 
that  your  names  will  be  household  words  a  thousand  years 
from  now. 

**A  thousand  years  is  a  good  while,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
who  sits  opposite,  thoughtfully. 

—  Where  have  I  been  for  the  last  three  or  four  days?  Down 
at  the  Island,^  deer-shooting. — How  many  did  I  bag?  I 
brought  home  one  buck  shot.  —  The  Island  is  where?  No 
matter.  It  is  the  most  splendid  domain  that  any  man  looks 
upon  in  these  latitudes.  Blue  sea  aroimd  it,  and  running  up 
into  its  heart,  so  that  the  little  boat  slumbers  like  a  baby  in 
lap,  while  the  tall  ships  are  stripping  naked  to  fight  the  hurri- 
cane outside,  and  storm-stay-sails  banging  and  flying  in  rib- 
bons. Trees,  in  stretches  of  miles;  beeches,  oaks,  most  numer- 
ous;—  many  of  them  hung  with  moss,  looking  like  bearded 
Druids;  some  coiled  in  the  clasp  of  huge,  dark-stemmed  grape- 
vines. Open  patches  where  the  sun  gets  in  and  goes  to  sleep, 
and  the  winds  come  so  finely  sifted  that  they  are  as  soft  as 
swan's-down.  Rocks  scattered  about,  —  Stonehenge-like  mono- 
liths. Fresh-water  lakes;  one  of  them,  Mary's  lake,  crystal- 
clear,  full  of  flashing  pickerel  lying  under  the  Uly-pads  like 
tigers  in  the  jungle.  Six  pounds  of  ditto  killed  one  morning  for 
breakfast.  Ego fecit.^ 

The  divinity-student  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  question 
my  Latin.  No  sir,  I  said,  —  you  need  not  trouble  yourself. 
There  is  a  higher  law  in  grammar  not  to  be  put  down  by 
Andrews  and  Stoddard.  Then  I  went  on. 

Such  hospitality  as  that  island  has  seen  there  has  not  been 
the  like  of  in  these  our  New  England  sovereignties.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  shape  of  kindness  and  courtesy  that  can  make 
life  beautiful,  which  has  not  foimd  its  home  in  that  ocean- 

^  The  beautiful  island  referred  to  is  Naushon,  the  largest  of  a  group  lying 
between  Buzzard's  Bay  and  the  Vineyard  Sound,  south  of  the  main  land  of 
Massachusetts.  It  is  the  noblest  domain  in  New  England,  and  the  present  Lord 
of  the  Manor  is  worthy  of  succeeding  "the  Governor"  of  blessed  memory. 
[Author's  note.] 
.2  (Pronounced  "fake-it.")   "I  did  it," 


598  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

principality.  It  has  welcomed  all  who  were  worthy  of  welcome, 
from  the  pale  clergyman  who  came  to  breathe  the  sea-air  with 
its  medicinal  salt  and  iodine,  to  the  great  statesman  who  turned 
his  back  on  the  affairs  of  empire,  and  smoothed  his  Olympian 
forehead,  and  flashed  his  white  teeth  in  merriment  over  the 
long  table,  where  his  wit  was  the  keenest  and  his  story  the 
best. 

[I  don't  believe  any  man  ever  talked  like  that  in  this  world. 
I  don't  believe  /  talked  just  so;  but  the  fact  is,  in  reporting 
one's  conversation,  one  cannot  help  Blair-ing  it  up  more  or 
less,  ironing  out  crumpled  paragraphs,  starching  limp  ones,  and 
crimping  and  plaiting  a  Httle  sometimes;  it  is  as  natural  as 
prinking  at  the  looking-glass.] 

—  How  can  a  man  help  writing  poetry  in  such  a  place? 
Everybody  does  write  poetry  that  goes  there.  In  the  state 
archives,  kept  in  the  Ubrary  of  the  Lord  of  the  Isle,  are  whole 
volumes  of  unpubHshed  verse,  —  some  by  well-known  hands, 
and  others  quite  as  good,  by  the  last  people  you  would  think 
of  as  versifiers,  —  men  who  could  pension  off  all  the  genuine 
poets  in  the  country,  and  buy  ten  acres  of  Boston  common,  if 
it  was  for  sale,  with  what  they  had  left.  Of  course  I  had  to 
write  my  little  copy  of  verses  with  the  rest;  here  it  is,  if  you 
will  hear  me  read  it.  When  the  sun  is  in  the  west,  vessels  sailing 
in  an  easterly  direction  look  bright  or  dark  to  one  who  observes 
them  from  the  north  or  south,  according  to  the  tack  they  are 
sailing  upon.  Watching  them  from  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
great  mansion,  I  saw  these  perpetual  changes,  and  moralized 
thus:  — 

SUN  AND  SHADOW 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue: 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chafT  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 
Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar; 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  599 

How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  that  gaze  from  the  shore! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind-wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before. 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark. 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore! 


—  Insanity  is  often  the  logic  of  an  accurate  mind  overtasked. 
Good  mental  machinery  ought  to  break  its  own  wheels  and 
levers,  if  anything  is  thrust  among  them  suddenly  which  tends 
to  stop  them  or  reverse  their  motion.  A  weak  mind  does  not 
accumulate  force  enough  to  hurt  itself ; (Stupidity  often  saves  a 
man  from  going  mad.^'  We  frequently  see  persons  in  insane  hos- 
pitals, sent  there  in  consequence  of  what  are  called  religious 
mental  disturbances.  I  confess  that  I  think  better  of  them  than 
of  many  who  hold  the  same  notions,  and  keep  their  wits  and 
appear  to  enjoy  life  very  well,  outside  of  the  asylums.  Any 
decent  person  ought  to  go  mad,  if  he  really  holds  such  or  such 
opinions.  It  is  very  much  to  his  discredit  in  every  point  of 
view,  if  he  does  not.  What  is  the  use  of  my  saying  what  some 
of  these  opinions  are?  Perhaps  more  than  one  of  you  hold  such 
as  I  should  think  ought  to  send  you  straight  over  to  Somerville, 
if  you  have  any  logic  in  your  heads  or  any  human  feeling  in 
your  hearts.  Anything  that  is  brutal,  cruel,  heathenish,  that 
makes  life  hopeless  for  the  most  of  mankind  and  perhaps  for 
entire  races,  —  anything  that  assumes  the  necessity  of  the 
extermination  of  instincts  which  were  given  to  be  regulated,  — 
no  matter  by  what  name  you  call  it,  —  no  matter  whether  a 
fakir,  or  a  monk,  or  a  deacon  believes  it,  —  if  received,  ought 
to  produce  insanity  in  every  well-regulated  mind.  That  con- 
dition becomes  a  normal  one,  under  the  circumstances.  I  am 
very  much  ashamed  of  some  people  for  retaining  their  reason, 
when  they  know  perfectly  well  that  if  they  were  not  the  most 


6oo  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

stupid  or  the  most  selfish  of  human  beings,  they  would  become 
non-compotes  at  once. 

[Nobody  understood  this  but  the  theological  student  and 
the  schoolmistress.  They  looked  intelligently  at  each  other; 
but  whether  they  were  thinking  about  my  paradox  or  not,  I  am 
not  clear.  —  It  would  be  natural  enough.  Stranger  things  have 
happened.  Love  and  Death  enter  boarding-houses  without 
asking  the  price  of  board,  or  whether  there  is  room  for  them. 
Alas !  these  young  people  are  poor  and  palUd !  Love  should  be 
both  rich  and  rosy,  but  must  be  either  rich  or  rosy.  Talk  about 
military  duty !  What  is  that  to  the  warfare  of  a  married  maid- 
of-all-work,  with  the  title  of  mistress,  and  an  American  female 
constitution,  which  collapses  just  in  the  middle  third  of  life, 
and  comes  out  vulcanized  India-rubber,  if  it  happen  to  live 
through  the  period  when  health  and  strength  are  most  wanted?] 

—  Have  I  ever  acted  in  private  theatricals?  Often.  I  have 
played  the  part  of  the  "Poor  Gentleman,"  before  a  great  many 
audiences,  —  more,  I  trust,  than  I  shall  ever  face  again.  I  did 
not  wear  a  stage-costume,  nor  a  wig,  nor  moustaches  of  burnt 
cork,  but  I  was  placarded  and  announced  as  a  public  performer, 
and  at  the  proper  hour  I  came  forward  with  the  ballet-dancer's 
smile  upon  my  countenance,  and  made  my  bow  and  acted  my 
part.  I  have  seen  my  name  stuck  up  in  letters  so  big  that  I  was 
ashamed  to  show  myself  in  the  place  by  daylight.  I  have  gone 
to  a  town  with  a  sober  literary  essay  in  my  pocket,  and  seen 
myself  everywhere  announced  as  the  most  desperate  of  buffos, 
—  one  who  was  obliged  to  restrain  himself  in  the  full  exercise 
of  his  powers,  from  prudential  considerations.  I  have  been 
through  as  many  hardships  as  Ulysses,  in  the  pursuit  of  my 
histrionic  vocation.  I  have  travelled  in  cars  until  the  con- 
ductors all  knew  me  like  a  brother.  I  have  run  off  the  rails,  and 
stuck  all  night  in  snow-drifts,  and  sat  behind  females  that 
would  have  the  window  open  when  one  could  not  wink  without 
his  eyelids  freezing  together.  Perhaps  I  shall  give  you  some  of 
my  experiences  one  of  these  days;  —  I  will  not  now,  for  I  have 
something  else  for  you. 

Private  theatricals,  as  I  have  figured  in  them  in  country 
lyceum-halls,  are  one  thing,  —  and  private  theatricals,  as  they 
may  be  seen  in  certain  gilded  and  frescoed  saloons  of  our 
metropolis,  are  another.  Yes,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  real  gentle- 


THE  AL  /OCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE     6oi 

men  and  ladies,  who  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  mouth,  and 
rant,  and  stride,  like  most  of  our  stage  heroes  and  heroines,  in 
the  characters  which  show  off  their  graces  and  talents;  most  of 
all  to  see  a  fresh,  unrouged,  unspoiled,  high-bred  young  maiden, 
with  a  lithe  figure,  and  a  pleasant  voice,  acting  in  those  love- 
dramas  which  make  us  young  again  to  look  upon,  when  real 
youth  and  beauty  will  play  them  for  us. 

—  Of  course  I  wrote  the  prologue  I  was  asked  to  write.  I 
did  not  see  the  play,  though.  I  knew  there  was  a  young  lady 
in  it,  and  that  somebody  was  in  love  with  her,  and  she  was  in 
love  with  him,  and  somebody  (an  old  tutor,  I  believe)  wanted 
to  interfere,  and,  very  naturally,  the  young  lady  was  too  sharp 
for  him.  The  play  of  course  ends  charmingly;  there  is  a  general 
reconciUation,  and  all  concerned  form  a  line  and  take  each 
other's  hands,  as  people  always  do  after  they  have  made  up 
their  quarrels,  —  and  then  the  curtain  falls,  —  if  it  does  not 
stick,  as  it  commonly  does  at  private  theatrical  exhibitions,  in 
which  case  a  boy  is  detailed  to  pull  it  down,  which  he  does, 
blushing  violently. 

Now,  then,  for  my  prologue.  I  am  not  going  to  change  my 
caesuras  and  cadences  for  anybody;  so  if  you  do  not  like  the 
heroic,  or  iambic  trimeter  brachycatalectic,  you  had  better  not 
wait  to  hear  it. 

THIS  IS  IT 

A  Prologue?  Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know;  — 
I  have  my  doubts.  No  matter,  —  here  we  go! 
What  is  a  prologue?  Let  our  Tutor  teach: 
Pro  means  beforehand;  logus  stands  for  speech. 
'T  is  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the  strings, 
The  prima  donna's  courtesy  ere  she  sings. 

"The  world's  a  stage,"  —  as  Shakespeare  said,  one  day; 
The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant  to  say. 
The  outside  world's  a  blunder,  that  is  clear; 
The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 
Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma; 
Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stem  papa; 
Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are  paid, 
The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid; 
One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 


6o2  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 
Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 

—  Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  rehef , 

And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief, 

—  When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  speech. 
And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach. 

Cries,  "Help,  kyind  Heaven!"  and  drops  upon  her  knees 
On  the  green  —  baize,  —  beneath  the  (canvas)  trees,  — 
See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly:  — 
"Ha!  Villain!  Draw!  Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or  die!" 

—  When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 
Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionaire,  — 
Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy, 

Sobs  on  his  neck,  "My  boy  I  My  boy!!  MY  BOY!!!" 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night 
Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 
Ladies,  attend!  While  woful  cares  and  doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without, 
Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere. 
One  thing  is  certain:  Love  will  triumph  here! 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 

The  world's  great  masters,  when  you're  out  of  school,  — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play: 

IMan  has  his  will,  —  but  woman  has  her  way! 

While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire. 

Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire,  — 

The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 

Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 

But  that  one  rebel,  —  woman's  wilful  heart, 

All  foes  you  master;  but  a  woman's  wit 

Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you  're  hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do. 

Hear  an  old  story  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade. 

Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 

One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 

Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 

Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy-browed, 

Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 

His  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden  gleam. 

As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade;  he  turned  as  if  to  go; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  603 

"Why  strikest  not?  Perform  thy  murderous  act," 

The  prisoner  said.   (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 
"Friend  I  have  struck,"  the  artist  straight  replied; 
"Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 

He  held  his  snuff-box,  —  "Now  then,  if  you  please!" 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 
Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along  the  floor,  — 
Bounced  down  the  steps;  —  the  prisoner  said  no  more! 

Woman!  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye; 
If  death  lurks  in  it,  oh,  how  sweet  to  die! 
Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head; 
We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we're  dead! 

The  prologue  went  off  very  well,  as  I  hear.  No  alterations 
were  suggested  by  the  lady  to  whom  it  was  sent,  so  far  as  I 
know.  Sometimes  people  criticise  the  poems  one  sends  them, 
and  suggest  all  sorts  of  improvements.^  Who  was  that  silly 
body  that  wanted  Burns  to  alter  **  Scots  wha  hae,"  so  as  to 
lengthen  the  last  line,  thus?  — 

"Edward!"  Chains  and  slavery. 

Here  is  a  little  poem  I  sent  a  short  time  since  to  a  committee 
for  a  certain  celebration.  I  understood  that  it  was  to  be  a  fes- 
tive and  con\ivial  occasion,  and  ordered  myself  accordingly. 
It  seems  the  president  of  the  day  was  what  is  called  a  "teeto- 
taller." I  received  a  note  from  him  in  the  following  words,  con- 
taining the  copy  subjoined,  with  the  emendations  annexed  to  it. 

"Dear  Sir,  —  your  poem  gives  good  satisfaction  to  the  com- 
mittee. The  sentiments  expressed  with  reference  to  liquor  are 
not,  however,  those  generally  entertained  by  this  community. 
I  have  therefore  consulted  the  clergyman  of  this  place,  who  has 
made  some  slight  changes,  which  he  thinks  will  remove  all 
objections,  and  keep  the  valuable  portions  of  the  poem.  Please 
to  inform  me  of  your  charge  for  said  poem.  Our  means  are 
limited,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"Yours  with  respect." 

^  I  remember  being  asked  by  a  celebrated  man  of  letters  to  let  him  look  over 
an  early,  but  somewhat  elaborate  poem  of  mine.  He  read  the  manuscript  and 
suggested  the  change  of  one  word,  which  I  adopted  in  deference  to  his  opinion. 
The  emendation  was  anything  but  an  improvement,  and  in  later  editions  the 
passage  reads  as  when  first  written.  [Author's  note.) 


6o4  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

Here  it  is, — with  the  slight  alterations.^ 

Cornel  fill  a  fresh  bumper, — for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 

While  the  nectar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flowl 

decoction 

Poxir  out  the  rich  juicefl  still  hright  with  the  sun,. 

dye-stuff 

Tin  o'er  the  bfimmed  crystal  the  rubies  shaD  run. 

half  ripened  apples 

The  purple  globed  clusters  their  life-dews  have  bled; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  fragrance  thoy  ohcdl 

ranlc  poisons  vfines  III 

For  summer's  last  roses  lie  hid  in  the  wines 

stable-boys  smoking  long-"nine5. 

That  were  garnered  by^maidens  who  laughed  through  the  vinesi 

scowl  howl  sfcoff  sneey 

VThen  a  smile,  and  a  glass,  and  a  toast,  and  a  cheer, 

strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

FoT  all  the  good  wine,  and  we  Ve  some  of  it  here> 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down,  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all  1 

Long  live  the  gay  serv^ant  that  laughs  fot  ufl>alll» 

The  company  said  I  had  been  shabbily  treated,  and  advised 
me  to  charge  the  committee  double,  —  which  I  did.  But  as  I 
never  got  my  pay,  I  don't  know  that  it  made  much  difference. 
I  am  a  very  particular  person  about  having  all  I  write  printed 
as  I  write  it.  I  require  to  see  a  proof,  a  revise,  a  re-revise,  and 
a  double  re-revise,  or  fourth-proof  rectified  impression  of  all 
my  productions,  especially  verse.  A  misprint  kills  a  sensitive 
author.  An  intentional  change  of  his  text  murders  him.  No 
wonder  so  many  poets  die  young! 

I  have  nothing  more  to  report  at  this  time,  except  two  pieces 
of  advice  I  gave  to  the  young  women  at  table.  One  relates  to  a 
vulgarism  of  language,  which  I  grieve  to  say  is  sometimes  heard 
even  from  female  lips.   The  other  is  of  more  serious  purport, 

*  I  recollect  a  British  criticism  of  the  poem  "with  the  slight  alterations,"  in 
which  the  writer  was  quite  indignant  at  the  treatment  my  convivial  song  had 
received.  No  committee,  he  thought,  would  dare  to  treat  a  Scotch  author  in  that 
way.  I  could  not  help  being  reminded  of  Sydney  Smith,  and  the  surgical  opera- 
tion he  proposed,  in  order  to  get  a  pleasantry  into  the  head  of  a  North  Briton. 
[Author's  note.] 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  605 

and  applies  to  such  as  contemplate  a  change  of  condition,  — 
matrimony,  in  fact. 

—  The  woman  who  "calculates''  is  lost. 

—  Put  not  your  trust  in  money,  but  put  your  money  in 
trust. 

m 

[The  Atlantic  obeys  the  moon,  and  its  Luniversary  has 
come  round  again.  I  have  gathered  up  some  hasty  notes  of  my 
remarks  made  since  the  last  high  tides,  which  I  respectfully 
submit.  Please  to  remember  this  is  talk;  just  as  easy  and  just 
as  formal  as  I  choose  to  make  it.] 

—  I  never  saw  an  author  in  my  life  —  saving,  perhaps,  one 
—  that  did  not  purr  as  audibly  as  a  full-grown  domestic  cat 
(Felis  Catus,  Linn.)  on  having  his  fur  smoothed  in  the  right 
way  by  a  skilful  hand. 

But  let  me  give  you  a  caution.  Be  very  careful  how  you  tell 
an  author  he  is  droll.  Ten  to  one  he  will  hate  you;  and  if  he 
does,  be  sure  he  can  do  you  a  mischief,  and  very  probably  will. 
Say  you  cried  over  his  romance  or  his  verses,  and  he  will  love 
you  and  send  you  a  copy.  You  can  laugh  over  that  as  much  as 
you  like,  —  in  private. 

—  Wonder  why  authors  and  actors  are  ashamed  of  being 
funny?  —  Why,  there  are  obvious  reasons,  and  deep  philo- 
sophical ones.  The  clown  knows  very  well  that  the  women  are 
not  in  love  with  him,  but  with  Hamlet,  the  fellow  in  the  black 
cloak  and  plumed  hat.  Passion  never  laughs.  The  wit  knows 
that  his  place  is  at  the  tail  of  a  procession. 

If  you  want  the  deep  underlying  reason,  I  must  take  more 
time  to  tell  it.  There  is  a  perfect  consciousness  in  every  form  of 
wit,  —  using  that  term  in  its  general  sense,  —  that  its  essence 
consists  in  a  partial  and  incomplete  view  of  whatever  it  touches. 
It  throws  a  single  ray,  separated  from  the  rest,  —  red,  yellow, 
blue,  or  any  intermediate  shade,  —  upon  an  object;  never 
white  light;  that  is  the  province  of  wisdom.  We  get  beautiful 
effects  from  wit,  —  all  the  prismatic  colors,  —  but  never  the 
object  as  it  is  in  fair  daylight.  A  pun,  which  is  a  kind  of  wit, 
is  a  different  and  much  shallower  trick  in  mental  optics;  throw- 
ing the  shadows  of  two  objects  so  that  one  overhes  the  other. 
Poetry  uses  the  rainbow  tints  for  special  effects,  but  always 


6o6  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

keeps  its  essential  object  in  the  purest  white  light  of  truth.  — 
Will  you  allow  me  to  pursue  this  subject  a  little  farther? 

[They  did  n't  allow  me  at  that  time,  for  somebody  happened 
to  scrape  the  floor  with  his  chair  just  then;  which  accidental 
sound,  as  all  must  have  noticed,  has  the  instantaneous  effect 
that  the  cutting  of  the  yellow  hair  by  Iris  had  upon  infehx 
Dido.^    It  broke  the  charm,  and  that  breakfast  was  over.] 

—  Don't  flatter  yourselves  that  friendship  authorizes  you 
to  say  disagreeable  things  to  your  intimates.  On  the  contrary, 
the  nearer  you  come  into  relation  with  a  person,  the  more 
necessary  do  tact  and  courtesy  become.  Except  in  cases  of 
necessity,  which  are  rare,  leave  your  friend  to  learn  unpleasant 
truths  from  his  enemies;  they  are  ready  enough  to  tell  them. 
Good  breeding  never  forgets  that  amour-propre  is  universal. 
When  you  read  the  story  of  the  Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias,  you 
may  laugh,  if  you  will,  at  the  poor  old  man's  delusion;  but  don't 
forget  that  the  youth  was  the  greater  fool  of  the  two,  and  that 
his  master  served  such  a  booby  rightly  in  turning  him  out  of 
doors. 

—  You  need  not  get  up  a  rebellion  against  what  I  say,  if  you 
find  everything  in  my  sayings  is  not  exactly  new.  You  can't 
possibly  mistake  a  man  who  means  to  be  honest  for  a  hterary 
pickpocket.  I  once  read  an  introductory  lecture  that  looked  to 
me  too  learned  for  its  latitude.  On  examination,  I  found  all  its 
erudition  was  taken  ready-made  from  Disraeli.^  If  I  had  been 
ill-natured,  I  should  have  shown  up  the  little  great  man,  who 
had  once  belabored  me  in  his  feeble  way.  But  one  can  gener- 
ally tell  these  wholesale  thieves  easily  enough,  and  they  are  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  putting  them  in  the  pillory.  I  doubt  the 
entire  novelty  of  my  remarks  just  made  on  telling  unpleasant 
truths,  yet  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  larceny. 

Neither  make  too  much  of  flaws  and  occasional  overstate- 
ments. Some  persons  seem  to  think  that  absolute  truth,  in  the 
form  of  rigidly  stated  propositions,  is  all  that  conversation 
admits.  This  is  precisely  as  if  a  musician  should  insist  on  hav- 
ing nothing  but  perfect  chords  and  simple  melodies,  —  no 
diminished  fifths,  no  flat  sevenths,  no  flourishes,  on  any  ac- 
count. Now  it  is  fair  to  say,  that,  just  as  music  must  have  all 

1  The  efifect  was  Dido's  death;  JEneid,  iv,  704-05. 
*  Isaac  Disraeli,  author  of  Curiosities  of  Literature. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  607 

these,  so  conversation  must  have  its  partial  truths,  its  embel- 
lished truths,  its  exaggerated  truths.  It  is  in  its  higher  forms 
an  artistic  product,  and  admits  the  ideal  element  as  much  as 
pictures  or  statues.  One  man  who  is  a  little  too  literal  can  spoil 
the  talk  of  a  whole  tableful  of  men  of  esprit.  —  "Yes,"  you 
say,  "but  who  wants  to  hear  fanciful  people's  nonsense?  Put 
the  facts  to  it,  and  then  see  where  it  is! "  —  Certainly,  if  a  man 
is  too  fond  of  paradox,  —  if  he  is  flighty  and  empty,  —  if,  in- 
stead of  striking  those  fifths  and  sevenths,  those  harmonious 
discords,  often  so  much  better  than  the  twinned  octaves,  in  the 
music  of  thought,  —  if,  instead  of  striking  these,  he  jangles  the 
chords,  stick  a  fact  into  him  like  a  stiletto.  But  remember  that 
talking  is  one  of  the  fine  arts,  —  the  noblest,  the  most  impor- 
tant, and  the  most  difficult,  —  and  that  its  fluent  harmonies 
may  be  spoiled  by  the  intrusion  of  a  single  harsh  note.  There- 
fore conversation  which  is  suggestive  rather  than  argumenta- 
tive, which  lets  out  the  most  of  each  talker's  results  of  thought, 
is  commonly  the  pleasantest  and  the  most  profitable.  It  is  not 
easy,  at  the  best,  for  two  persons  talking  together  to  make  the 
most  of  each  other's  thoughts,  there  are  so  many  of  them. 

[The  company  looked  as  if  they  wanted  an  explanation.] 

When  John  and  Thomas,  for  instance,  are  talking  together, 
it  is  natural  enough  that  among  the  six  there  should  be  more  or 
less  confusion  and  misapprehension. 

[Our  landlady  turned  pale;  —  no  doubt  she  thought  there 
was  a  screw  loose  in  my  intellects,  —  and  that  involved  the 
probable  loss  of  a  boarder.  A  severe-looking  person,  who  wears 
a  Spanish  cloak  and  a  sad  cheek,  fluted  by  the  passions  of  the 
melodrama,  whom  I  understand  to  be  the  professional  ruffian 
of  the  neighboring  theatre,  alluded,  with  a  certain  Kfting  of  the 
brow,  drawing  down  of  the  comers  of  the  mouth,  and  some- 
what rasping  voce  di  petto,  to  Falstaff's  nine  men  in  buckram. 
Everybody  looked  up;  I  believe  the  old  gentleman  opposite 
was  afraid  I  should  seize  the  carving-knife;  at  any  rate,  he  slid 
it  to  one  side,  as  it  were  carelessly.] 

I  think,  I  said,  I  can  make  it  plain  to  Benjamin  Franklin 
here,  that  there  are  at  least  six  personalities  distinctly  to  be 
recognized  as  taking  part  in  that  dialogue  between  John  and 
Thomas. 


6o8  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

'  I.  The  real  John;  known  only  to  his  Maker. 

2.  John's  ideal  John;  never  the  real  one,  and  often  very 
Three  Johns.  <       unlike  him. 

3.  Thomas's  ideal  John;  never  the  real  John,  nor  John's 
John,  but  often  very  unHke  either. 

('  I.  The  real  Thomas. 
Three  Thomases,  -j  2.  Thomas's  ideal  Thomas. 
(,3.  John's  ideal  Thomas. 

Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed ;  only  one  can  be  weighed 
on  a  platform-balance;  but  the  other  two  are  just  as  important 
in  the  conversation.  Let  us  suppose  the  real  John  to  be  old, 
dull,  and  ill-looking /^But  as  the  Higher  Powers  have  not  con- 
ferred on  men  the  gift  of  seeing  themselves  in  the  true  light,^ 
John  very  possibly  conceives  himself  to  be  youthful,  witty,  and 
fascinating,  and  talks  from  the  point  of  view  of  this  ideal. 
Thomas,  again,  believes  him  to  be  an  artful  rogue,  we  will  say; 
therefore  he  is,  so  far  as  Thomas's  attitude  in  the  conversation 
is  concerned,  an  artful  rogue,  though  really  simple  and  stupid. 
The  same  conditions  apply  to  the  three  Thomases.  It  follows, 
that,  until  a  man  can  be  found  who  knows  himself  as  his  Maker 
knows  him,  or  who  sees  himself  as  others  see  him,  there  must 
be  at  least  six  persons  engaged  in  every  dialogue  between  two. 
Of  these,  the  least  important,  philosophically  speaking,  is  the 
one  that  we  have  called  the  real  person.  No  wonder  two  dis- 
putants often  get  angry,  when  there  are  six  of  them  talking  and 
listening  all  at  the  same  time. 

[A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the  above  remarks 
was  made  by  a  young  fellow  answering  to  the  name  of  John, 
who  sits  near  me  at  table.  A  certain  basket  of  peaches,  a  rare 
vegetable,  Httle  known  to  boarding-houses,  was  on  its  way  to 
me  via  this  unlettered  Johannes.  He  appropriated  the  three 
that  remained  in  the  basket,  remarking  that  there  was  just  one 
apiece  for  him.  I  convinced  him  that  his  practical  inference 
was  hasty  and  illogical,  but  in  the  mean  time  he  had  eaten  the 
peaches.] 

—  The  opinions  of  relatives  as  to  a  man's  powers  are  very 
commonly  of  Httle  value;  not  merely  because  they  sometimes 
overrate  their  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  some  may  suppose;  on 
the  contrary,  they  are  quite  as  likely  to  underrate  those  whom 
they  have  grown  into  the  habit  of  considering  like  themselves. 
The  advent  of  genius  is  like  what  florists  style  the  breaking  of  a 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  609 

seedling  tulip  into  what  we  may  call  high-caste  colors,  —  ten 
thousand  dingy  flowers,  then  one  with  the  divine  streak;  or, 
if  you  prefer  it,  like  the  coming  up  in  old  Jacob's  garden  of 
that  most  gentlemanly  little  fruit,  the  seckel  pear,  which  I  have 
sometimes  seen  in  shop-windows.  It  is  a  surprise,  —  there  is 
nothing  to  account  for  it.  All  at  once  we  find  that  twice  two 
make -five.  Nature  is  fond  of  what  are  called  "gift-enterprises." 
This  little  book  of  Hfe  which  she  has  given  into  the  hands  of  its 
joint  possessors  is  commonly  one  of  the  old  story-books  bound 
over  again.  Only  once  in  a  great  while  there  is  a  stately  poem 
in  it,  or  its  leaves  are  illuminated  with  the  glories  of  art,  or  they 
enfold  a  draft  for  untold  values  signed  by  the  million-fold 
millionnaire  old  mother  herself.  But  strangers  are  commonly 
the  first  to  find  the  "gift"  that  came  with  the  little  book. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  anything  can  be  conscious  of 
its  own  flavor.  Whether  the  musk-deer,  or  the  civet-cat,  or 
even  a  still  more  eloquently  silent  animal  that  might  be  men- 
tioned, is  aware  of  any  personal  peculiarity,  may  well  be 
doubted.  No  man  knows  his  own  voice;  many  men  do  not 
know  their  own  profiles.  Every  one  remembers  Carlyle's 
famous  "Characteristics"  article;  allow  for  exaggerations,  and 
there  is  a  great  deal  in  his  doctrine  of  the  self-unconsciousness 
of  genius.  It  comes  under  the  great  law  just  stated.  This  in- 
capacity of  knowing  its  own  traits  is  often  found  in  the  family 
as  well  as  in  the  indi\ddual.  So  never  mind  what  your  cousins, 
brothers,  sisters,  uncles,  aunts,  and  the  rest,  say  about  that 
fine  poem  you  have  written,  but  send  it  (postage-paid)  to  the 
editors,  if  there  are  any,  of  the  Atlantic,  —  which,  by  the  way, 
is  not  so  called  because  it  is  a  a  notion,  as  some  dull  wits  wish 
they  had  said,  but  are  too  late. 

—  Scientific  knowledge,  even  in  the  most  modest  persons, 
has  mingled  with  it  a  something  which  partakes  of  insolence. 
Absolute,  peremptory  facts  are  bullies,  and  those  who  keep 
company  with  them  are  apt  to  get  a  bullying  habit  of  mind;  — 
not  of  manners,  perhaps;  they  may  be  soft  and  smooth,  but  the 
smile  they  carry  has  a  quiet  assertion  in  it,  such  as  the  Cham- 
pion of  the  Heavy  Weights,  commonly  the  best-natured,  but 
not  the  most  diffident  of  men,  wears  upon  what  he  very  inele- 
gantly calls  his  "mug."  Take  the  man,  for  instance,  who  deals 
in  the  mathematical  sciences.  There  is  no  elasticity  in  a  mathe- 


6io  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

matical  fact;  if  you  bring  up  against  it,  it  never  yields  a  hair's 
breadth;  everything  must  go  to  pieces  that  comes  in  collision 
with  it.  What  the  mathematician  knows  being  absolute,  un- 
conditional, incapable  of  suffering  question,  it  should  tend,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  to  breed  a  despotic  way  of  thinking.  So 
of  those  who  deal  with  the  palpable  and  often  unmistakable 
facts  of  external  nature;  only  in  a  less  degree.  Every  prob- 
ability —  and  most  of  our  common,  working  beliefs  are  prob- 
abilities —  is  provided  with  buffers  at  both  ends,  which  break 
the  force  of  opposite  opinions  clashing  against  it;  but  scientific 
certainty  has  no  spring  in  it,  no  courtesy,  no  possibility  of 
yielding.  All  this  must  react  on  the  minds  which  handle  these 
forms  of  truth. 

—  Oh,  you  need  not  tell  me  that  Messrs.  A.  and  B.  are  the 
most  gracious,  unassuming  people  in  the  world,  and  yet  pre- 
eminent in  the  ranges  of  science  I  am  referring  to.  I  know  that 
as  well  as  you.  But  mark  this  which  I  am  going  to  say  once  for 
all:  If  I  had  not  force  enough  to  project  a  principle  full  in  the 
face  of  the  half  dozen  most  obvious  facts  which  seem  to  contra- 
dict it,  I  would  think  only  in  single  file  from  this  day  forward. 
A  rash  man,  once  visiting  a  certain  noted  institution  at  South 
Boston,  ventured  to  express  the  sentiment,  that  man  is  a  ra- 
tional being.  An  old  woman  who  was  an  attendant  in  the  Idiot 
school  contradicted  the  statement,  and  appealed  to  the  facts 
before  the  speaker  to  disprove  it.  The  rash  man  stuck  to  his 
hasty  generalization,  notwithstanding. 

[ —  It  is  my  desire  to  be  useful  to  those  with  whom  I  am  asso- 
ciated in  my  daily  relations.  I  not  unfrequently  practise  the 
divine  art  of  music  in  company  with  our  landlady's  daughter, 
who,  as  I  mentioned  before,  is  the  owner  of  an  accordion. 
Having  myself  a  well-marked  barytone  voice  of  more  than  half 
an  octave  in  compass,  I  sometimes  add  my  vocal  powers  to  her 
execution  of 

"Thou,  thou  reign'st  in  this  bosom," 

not,  however,  unless  her  mother  or  some  other  discreet  female 
is  present,  to  prevent  misinterpretation  or  remark.  I  have  also 
taken  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  Benjamin  Franklin,  before  re- 
ferred to,  sometimes  called  B.  F.,  or  more  frequently  Frank, 
in  imitation  of  that  felicitous  abbreviation,  combining  dignity. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  6ii 

and  convenience,  adopted  by  some  of  his  betters.  My  acquaint- 
ance with  the  French  language  is  very  imperfect,  I  having 
never  studied  it  anywhere  but  in  Paris,  which  is  awkward,  as 
B.  F.  devotes  himself  to  it  with  the  peculiar  advantage  of  an 
Alsacian  teacher.  The  boy,  I  think,  is  doing  well,  between  us, 
notwithstanding.  The  following  is  an  uncorrected  French  exer- 
cise, written  by  this  young  gentleman.  His  mother  thinks  it 
very  creditable  to  his  abilities;  though,  being  unacquainted 
with  the  French  language,  her  judgment  cannot  be  considered 
final. 

LE  RAT  DES  SALONS  A  LECTURE 

Ce  rat  ^\  est  un  animal  fort  singulier.  II  a  deux  pattes  de  derriere 
sur  lesquelles  il  marche,  et  deux  pattes  de  devant  dont  il  fait  usage 
pour  tenir  les  journaux.  Cet  animal  a  la  peau  noire  poiir  le  plupart, 
et  porte  un  cercle  blanchatre  autour  de  son  cou.  On  le  trouve  tous 
les  jours  aux  dits  salons,  ou  il  demeure,  digere,  s'il  y  a  de  quoi  dans 
son  interieur,  respire,  tousse,  eternue,  dort,  et  ronfle  quelquefois, 
ayant  toujours  le  semblant  de  lire.  On  ne  salt  pas  s'il  a  une  autre 
gite  que  fela.  II  a  Fair  d'une  bete  tres  stupide,  mais  il  est  d'une 
sagacite  et  d'une  vitesse  extraordinaire  quand  il  s'agit  de  saisir  un 
journal  nouveau.  On  ne  salt  pas  pourquoi  il  lit,  parcequ'il  ne  parait 
pas  avoir  des  idees.  II  vocalise  rarement,  mais  en  revanche,  il  fait 
des  bruits  nasaux  divers.  II  porte  un  crayon  dans  une  de  ses  poches 
pectorales,  avec  lequel  il  fait  des  marques  sur  les  bords  des  jour- 
naux et  des  livres,  semblable  aux  suivans:  !  !  !  —  Bah!  Pooh!  II  ne 
faut  pas  cependant  les  prendre  pour  des  signes  d'intelligence.  II  ne 
vole  pas,  ordinairement;  il  fait  rarement  meme  des  echanges  de 
parapluie,  et  jamais  de  chapeau,  parceque  son  chapeau  a  toujours 
un  caractere  specifique.  On  ne  sait  pas  au  juste  ce  dont  il  se  nourrit. 
Feu  Cuvier  etait  d'aAds  que  c'etait  de  I'odeur  du  cuir  des  reliures; 
ce  qu'on  dit  d'etre  une  nourriture  animale  fort  saine,  et  peu  chere. 
II  vit  bien  longtems.  Enfin  il  meure,  en  laissant  a  ses  heritiers  une 
carte  du  Salon  a  Lecture  ou  il  avait  existe  pendant  sa  vie.  On  pre- 
tend qu'il  revient  toutes  les  nuits,  apres  la  mort,  visiter  le  Salon. 
On  peut  le  voir,  dit  on,  a  minuit,  dans  sa  place  habituelle,  tenant  le 
journal  du  soir,  et  ayant  a  sa  main  un  crayon  de  charbon.  Le  lende- 
main  on  trouve  des  caracteres  inconnus  sur  les  bords  du  journal. 
Ce  qui  prouve  que  le  spiritualisme  est  vrai,  et  que  Messieurs  les 
Professeurs  de  Cambridge  sont  des  imbeciles  qui  ne  savent  rien  du 
tout,  du  tout. 

I  think  this  exercise,  which  I  have  not  corrected,  or  allowed 


6i2  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

to  be  touched  in  any  way,  is  not  discreditable  to  B.  F.  You 
observe  that  he  is  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  zoology  at  the  same 
time  that  he  is  learning  French.  Fathers  of  families  in  moderate 
circumstances  will  find  it  profitable  to  their  children,  and  an 
economical  mode  of  instruction,  to  set  them  to  revising  and 
amending  this  boy's  exercise.  The  passage  was  originally  taken 
from  the  ''Histoire  Naturelle  des  Betes  Ruminans  et  Rongeurs, 
Bipedes  et  Autres,"  lately  published  in  Paris.  This  was  trans- 
lated into  English  and  published  in  London.  It  was  republished 
at  Great  Pedlington,  with  notes  and  additions  by  the  American 
editor.  The  notes  consist  of  an  interrogation-mark  on  page  53d, 
and  a  reference  (p.  127th)  to  another  book  "edited"  by  the 
same  hand.  The  additions  consist  of  the  editor's  name  on  the 
title-page  and  back,  with  a  complete  and  authentic  list  of  said 
editor's  honorary  titles  in  the  first  of  these  localities.  Our  boy 
translated  the  translation  back  into  French.  This  may  be  com- 
pared with  the  original,  to  be  found  on  Shelf  13,  Division  X, 
of  the  Public  Library  of  this  metropolis.] 

—  Some  of  you  boarders  ask  me  from  time  to  time  why  I 
don't  write  a  story,  or  a  novel,  or  something  of  that  kind.  In- 
stead of  answering  each  one  of  you  separately,  I  will  thank  you 
to  step  up  into  the  wholesale  department  for  a  few  moments, 
where  I  deal  in  answers  by  the  piece  and  by  the  bale. 

That  every  articulately-speaking  human  being  has  in  him 
stuff  for  one  novel  in  three  volumes  duodecimo  has  long  been 
with  me  a  cherished  belief.  It  has  been  maintained,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  many  persons  cannot  write  more  than  one 
novel,  —  that  all  after  that  are  likely  to  be  failures.  —  Life  is  so 
much  more  tremendous  a  thing  in  its  heights  and  depths  than 
any  transcript  of  it  can  be,  that  all  records  of  human  experience 
are  as  so  many  bound  herbaria  to  the  innumerable  glowing, 
glistening,  rustling,  breathing,  fragrance-laden,  poison-sucking, 
life-giving,  death-distilling  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  forest  and 
the  prairies.  All  we  can  do  with  books  of  human  experience  is 
to  make  them  alive  again  with  something  borrowed  from  our 
own  lives.  We  can  make  a  book  alive  for  us  just  in  proportion 
to  its  resemblance  in  essence  or  in  form  to  our  own  experience. 
Now  an  author's  first  novel  is  naturally  drawn,  to  a  great  ex- 
tent, from  his  personal  experiences;  that  is,  is  a  literal  copy  of 
nature  under  various  slight  disguises.    But  the  moment  the 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  613 

author  gets  out  of  his  personality,  he  must  have  the  creative 
power,  as  well  as  the  narrative  art  and  the  sentiment,  in  order 
to  tell  a  living  story;  and  this  is  rare. 

Besides,  there  is  great  danger  that  a  man's  first  life-story 
shall  clean  him  out,  so  to  speak,  of  his  best  thoughts.  Most 
Hves,  though  their  stream  is  loaded  with  sand  and  turbid  with 
alluvial  waste,  drop  a  few  golden  grains  of  wisdom  as  they  flow 
along.  Oftentimes  a  single  cradling  gets  them  all,  and  after 
that  the  poor  man's  labor  is  only  rewarded  by  mud  and  worn 
pebbles.  All  which  proves  that  I,  as  an  individual  of  the  human 
family,  could  write  one  novel  or  story  at  any  rate,  if  I  would. 

—  Why  don't  I,  then?  —  Well,  there  are  several  reasons 
against  it.  In  the  first  place,  I  should  tell  all  my  secrets,  and  I 
maintain  that  verse  is  the  proper  medium  for  such  revelations. 
Rhythm  and  rhyme  and  the  harmonies  of  musical  language, 
the  play  of  fancy,  the  fire  of  imagination,  the  flashes  of  passion, 
so  hide  the  nakedness  of  a  heart  laid  open,  that  hardly  any 
confession,  transfigured  in  the  luminous  halo  of  poetry,  is  re- 
proached as  self -exposure.  A  beauty  shows  herself  under  the 
chandeliers,  protected  by  the  glitter  of  her  diamonds,  with  such 
a  broad  snow-drift  of  white  arms  and  shoulders  laid  bare,  that, 
were  she  unadorned  and  in  plain  calico,  she  would  be  unendur- 
able —  in  the  opinion  of  the  ladies. 

Again,  I  am  terribly  afraid  I  should  show  up  all  my  friends. 
I  should  like  to  know  if  all  story-tellers  do  not  do  this?  Now  I 
am  afraid  all  my  friends  would  not  bear  showing  up  very  well; 
for  they  have  an  average  share  of  the  common  weakness  of 
humanity,  which  I  am  pretty  certain  would  come  out.  Of  all 
that  have  told  stories  among  us  there  is  hardly  one  I  can  recall 
who  has  not  drawn  too  faithfully  some  living  portrait  which 
might  better  have  been  spared. 

Once  more,  I  have  sometimes  thought  it  possible  I  might  be 
too  dull  to  write  such  a  story  as  I  should  wish  to  write. 

And  finally,  I  think  it  very  likely  I  shall  write  a  story  one  of 
these  days.  Don't  be  surprised  at  any  time,  if  you  see  me  com- 
ing out  with  ''The  Schoolmistress,"  or  "The  Old  Gentleman 
Opposite."  [Our  schoolmistress  and  our  old  gentleman  that 
sits  opposite  had  left  the  table  before  I  said  this.]  I  want  my 
glory  for  writing  the  same  discounted  now,  on  the  spot,  if 
you  please.  I  will  write  when  I  get  ready.  How  many  people 


6i4  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

live  on  the  reputation  of  the  reputation  they  might  have 
made! 

—  I  saw  you  smiled  when  I  spoke  about  the  possibility  of  my 
being  too  dull  to  write  a  good  story.  I  don't  pretend  to  know 
what  you  meant  by  it,  but  I  take  occasion  to  make  a  remark 
which  may  hereafter  prove  of  value  to  some  among  you.  — 
When  one  of  us  who  has  been  led  by  native  vanity  or  senseless 
flattery  to  think  himself  or  herself  possessed  of  talent  arrives 
at  the  full  and  final  conclusion  that  he  or  she  is  really  dull,  it  is 
one  of  the  most  tranquillizing  and  blessed  convictions  that  can 
enter  a  mortal's  mind.  All  our  failures,  our  short-comings,  our 
strange  disappointments  in  the  effect  of  our  efforts  are  lifted 
from  our  bruised  shoulders,  and  fall,  like  Christian's  pack,  at 
the  feet  of  that  Omnipotence  which  has  seen  fit  to  deny  us  the 
pleasant  gift  of  high  intelligence,  —  with  which  one  look  may 
overflow  us  in  some  wider  sphere  of  being. 

—  How  sweetly  and  honestly  one  said  to  me  the  other  day, 
"I  hate  books!"  A  gentleman,  —  singularly  free  from  affecta- 
tions, —  not  learned,  of  course,  but  of  perfect  breeding,  which 
is  often  so  much  better  than  learning,  —  by  no  means  dull,  in 
the  sense  of  knowledge  of  the  world  and  society,  but  certainly 
not  clever  either  in  the  arts  or  sciences,  —  his  company  is 
pleasing  to  all  who  know  him.  I  did  not  recognize  in  him  in- 
feriority of  literary  taste  half  so  distinctly  as  I  did  simplicity  of 
character  and  fearless  acknowledgment  of  his  inaptitude  for 
scholarship.  In  fact,  I  think  there  are  a  great  many  gentlemen 
and  others,  who  read  with  a  mark  to  keep  their  place,  that 
really  ^'hate  books,"  but  never  had  the  wit  to  find  it  out,  or 
the  manliness  to  own  it.  [Entre  nous,  I  always  read  with  a 
mark.] 

We  get  into  a  way  of  thinking  as  if  what  we  call  an  "intel- 
lectual man  "  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  made  up  of  nine  tenths, 
or  thereabouts,  of  book-learning,  and  one  tenth  himself.  But 
even  if  he  is  actually  so  compounded,  he  need  not  read  much. 
Society  is  a  strong  solution  of  books.  It  draws  the  virtue  out  of 
what  is  best  worth  reading,  as  hot  water  draws  the  strength  of 
tea-leaves.  If  I  were  a  prince,  I  would  hire  or  buy  a  private 
literary  tea-pot,  in  which  I  would  steep  all  the  leaves  of  new 
books  that  promised  well.  The  infusion  would  do  for  me  with- 
out the  vegetable  fibre.    You  understand  me;  I  would  have  a 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  615 

person  whose  sole  business  should  be  to  read  day  and  night,  and 
talk,  to  me  whenever  I  wanted  him  to.  I  know  the  man  I  would 
have:  a  quick-witted,  out-spoken,  incisive  fellow;  knows  his- 
tory, or  at  any  rate  has  a  shelf  full  of  books  about  it,  which  he 
can  use  handily,  and. the  same  of  all  useful  arts  and  sciences; 
knows  all  the  common  plots  of  plays  and  novels,  and  the  stock 
company  of  characters  that  are  continually  coming  on  in  new 
costume;  can  give  you  a  criticism  of  an  octavo  in  an  epithet 
and  a  wink,  and  you  can  depend  on  it;  cares  for  nobody  except 
for  the  virtue  there  is  in  what  he  says;  delights  in  taking  off  big 
wigs  and  professional  gowns,  and  in  the  disembalming  and  im- 
bandaging  of  all  literary  mummies.  Yet  he  is  as  tender  and 
reverential  to  all  that  bears  the  mark  of  genius,  —  that  is,  of  a 
new  influx  of  truth  or  beauty,  —  as  a  mm  over  her  missal.  In 
short,  he  is  one  of  those  men  that  know  everything  except  how 
to  make  a  living.  Him  would  I  keep  on  the  square  next  my 
own  royal  compartment  on  hfe's  chessboard.  To  him  I  would 
push  up  another  pawn,  in  the  shape  of  a  comely  and  wise  young 
woman,  whom  he  would  of  course  take,  —  to  wife.  For  all 
contingencies  I  would  liberally  provide.  In  a  word,  I  would, 
in  the  plebeian,  but  expressive  phrase,  ''put  him  through"  all 
the  material  part  of  life;  see  him  sheltered,  warmed,  fed,  but- 
ton-mended, and  all  that,  just  to  be  able  to  lay  on  his  talk 
when  I  liked,  —  with  the  privilege  of  shutting  it  off  at  will. 

A  Club  is  the  next  best  thing  to  this,  strung  like  a  harp,  with 
about  a  dozen  ringing  intelligences,^  each  answering  to  some 
chord  of  the  macrocosm.  They  do  well  to  dine  together  once  in 
a  while.  A  dinner-party  made  up  of  such  elements  is  the  last 
triumph  of  civilization  over  barbarism.  Nature  and  art  com- 
bine to  charm  the  senses;  the  equatorial  zone  of  the  system  is 
soothed  by  well-studied  artifices;  the  faculties  are  off  duty,  and 
fall  into  their  natural  attitudes;  you  see  wisdom  in  slippers  and 
science  in  a  short  jacket. 

The  whole  force  of  conversation  depends  on  how  much  you 
can  take  for  granted.  Vulgar  chess-players  have  to  play  their 
game  out;  nothing  short  of  the  brutality  of  an  actual  checkmate 

^  The  *'  Saturday  Club,"  before  referred  to,  answered  as  well  to  this  descrip- 
tion as  some  others  better  known  to  history.  Mathematics,  music,  art,  the 
physical  and  biological  sciences,  history,  philosophy,  poetry,  and  other  branches 
of  imaginative  literature  were  all  represented  by  masters  in  their  several  realms. 
[Author's  note.] 


6i6  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

satisfies  their  dull  apprehensions.  But  look  at  two  masters  of 
that  noble  game!  White  stands  well  enough,  so  far  as  you  can 
see;  but  Red  says,  Mate  in  six  moves;  —  White  looks,  —  nods; 

—  the  game  is  over.  Just  so  in  talking  with  first-rate  men; 
especially  when  they  are  good-natured  and  expansive,  as  they 
are  apt  to  be  at  table.  That  blessed  clairvoyance  which  sees 
into  things  without  opening  them,  —  that  glorious  license, 
which,  having  shut  the  door  and  driven  the  reporter  from  its 
keyhole,  calls  upon  Truth,  majestic  virgin!  to  get  down  from 
her  pedestal  and  drop  her  academic  poses,  and  take  a  festive 
garland  and  the  vacant  place  on  the  medius  lectus,^  —  that 
carnival-shower  of  questions  and  'replies  and  comments,  large 
axioms  bowled  over  the  mahogany  like  bomb-shells  from  pro- 
fessional mortars,  and  explosive  wit  dropping  its  trains  of 
many-colored  fire,  and  the  mischief-making  rain  of  bon-bons 
pelting  everybody  that  shows  himself,  —  the  picture  of  a  truly 
intellectual  banquet  is  one  which  the  old  Divinities  might  well 
have  attempted  to  reproduce  in  their  — 

—  "  Oh,  oh,  oh ! "  cried  the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John, 

—  ''that  is  from  one  of  your  lectures!" 

I  know  it,  I  replied,  —  I  concede  it,  I  confess  it,  proclaim  it. 

"The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them  all!" 

All  lecturers,  all  professors,  all  schoolmasters,  have  ruts  and 
grooves  in  their  minds  into  which  their  conversation  is  perpet- 
ually sliding.  Did  you  never,  in  riding  through  the  woods  of  a 
still  June  evening,  suddenly  feel  that  you  had  passed  into  a 
warm  stratum  of  air,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  strike  the  chill 
layer  of  atmosphere  beyond?  Did  you  never,  in  cleaving  the 
green  waters  of  the  Back  Bay,  —  where  the  Provincial  blue- 
noses  are  in  the  habit  of  beating  the  "Metropohtan"  boat- 
clubs,  —  find  yourself  in  a  tepid  streak,  a  narrow,  local  gulf- 
stream,  a  gratuitous  warm-bath  a  little  underdone,  through 
which  your  gHstening  shoulders  soon  flashed,  to  bring  you  back 
to  the  cold  realities  of  full-sea  temperature?  Just  so,  in  talking 
with  any  of  the  characters  above  referred  to,  one  not  unfre- 
quently  finds  a  sudden  change  in  the  style  of  the  conversation. 
The  lack-lustre  eye,  rayless  as  a  Beacon  Street  door-plate  in 
August,  all  at  once  fills  with  light;  the  face  flings  itself  wide 
*  Place  of  honor  at  a  feast. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  617 

open  like  the  church-portals  when  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
enter;  the  little  man  grows  in  stature  before  your  eyes,  like 
the  small  prisoner  with  hair  on  end,  beloved  yet  dreaded  of 
early  childhood;  you  were  talking  with  a  dwarf  and  an  imbe- 
cile, —  you  have  a  giant  and  a  trumpet-tongued  angel  before 
you!  —  Nothing  but  a  streak  out  of  a  fifty-dollar  lecture.  — 
As  when,  at  some  unlooked-for  moment,  the  mighty  foimtain- 
column  springs  into  the  air  before  the  astonished  passer-by,  — 
silver-footed,  diamond-crowned,  rainbow-scarfed,  —  from  the 
bosom  of  that  fair  sheet,  sacred  to  the  hymns  of  quiet  batra- 
chians  at  home,  and  the  epigrams  of  a  less  amiable  and  less 
elevated  order  of  reptilia  in  other  latitudes. 

—  Who  was  that  person  that  was  so  abused  some  time  since 
for  saying  that  in  the  conflict  of  two  races  our  sympathies  nat- 
urally go  with  the  higher?  No  matter  who  he  was.  Now  look 
at  what  is  going  on  in  India,  —  a  white,  superior  "  Caucasian" 
race,  against  a  dark-skinned,  inferior,  but  still  "Caucasian" 
race, —  and  where  are  English  and  American  sympathies?  We 
can't  stop  to  settle  all  the  doubtful  questions;  all  we  know  is, 
that  the  brute  nature  is  sure  to  come  out  most  strongly  in  the 
lower  race,  and  it  is  the  general  law  that  the  hmnan  side  of 
humanity  should  treat  the  brutal  side  as  it  does  the  same  nature 
in  the  inferior  animals,  —  tame  it  or  crush  it.  The  India  mail 
brings  stories  of  women  and  children  outraged  and  murdered; 
the  royal  stronghold  is  in  the  hands  of  the  babe-killers.  Eng- 
land takes  down  the  Map  of  the  World,  which  she  has  girdled 
with  empire,  and  makes  a  correction  thus:  Delhi.  Dele.  The 
cixdlized  world  says.  Amen. 

—  Do  not  think,  because  I  talk  to  you  of  many  subjects 
briefly,  that  I  should  not  find  it  much  lazier  work  to  take  each 
one  of  them  and  dilute  it  down  to  an  essay.  Borrow  some  of  my 
old  college  themes  and  water  my  remarks  to  suit  yourselves,  as 
the  Homeric  heroes  did  with  their  melas  oinos,  —  that  black, 
sweet,  s>Tupy  wine  which  they  used  to  alloy  with  three  parts 
or  more  of  the  flowing  stream.  [Could  it  have  been  melasses, 
as  Webster  and  his  pro\dncials  spell  it,  —  or  Molossa's,  as  dear 
old  smattering,  chattering,  would-be-College-President,  Cotton 
Mather,  has  it  in  the  Magnalia  ?  Ponder  thereon,  ye  small 
antiquaries  who  make  barn-door-fowl  flights  of  learning  in 
Notes   and   Queries  I  —  ye   Historical    Societies,  in  one    of 


6i8       -  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

whose  venerable  triremes  I,  too,  ascend  the  stream  of  time, 
while  other  hands  tug  at  the  oars!  — ye  Amines^  of  parasitical 
literature,  who  pick  up  your  grains  of  native-grown  food  with  a 
bodkin,  having  gorged  upon  less  honest  fare,  until,  like  the 
great  minds  Goethe  speaks  of,  you  have  "made  a  Golgotha" 
of  your  pages !  —  ponder  thereon !] 

—  Before  you  go,  this  morning,  I  want  to  read  you  a  copy  of 
verses.  You  will  understand  by  the  title  that  they  are  written 
in  an  imaginary  character.  I  don't  doubt  they  will  fit  some 
family-man  well  enough.  I  send  it  forth  as  ''Oak  Hall"^  pro- 
jects a  coat,  on  a  priori  grounds  of  conviction  that  it  will  suit 
somebody.  There  is  no  loftier  illustration  of  faith  than  this. 
It  beHeves  that  a  soul  has  been  clad  in  flesh;  that  tender  par- 
ents have  fed  and  nurtured  it;  that  its  mysterious  compages 
or  frame-work  has  survived  its  myriad  exposures  and  reached 
the  stature  of  maturity;  that  the  Man,  now  self -determining, 
has  given  in  his  adhesion  to  the  traditions  and  habits  of  the 
race  in  favor  of  artificial  clothing;  that  he  will,  having  all  the 
world  to  choose  from,  select  the  very  locality  where  this  auda- 
cious generalization  has  been  acted  upon.  It  builds  a  garment 
cut  to  the  pattern  of  an  Idea,  and  trusts  that  Nature  will  model 
a  material  shape  to  fit  it.  There  is  a  prophecy  in  every  seam, 
and  its  pockets  are  full  of  inspiration.  —  Now  hear  the  verses. 

THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS 

0  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring! 

1  'd  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy 

Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age! 

Away  with  learning's  crown! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 

From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame! 
Give  me  one  giddy,  reeUng  dream 

Of  Hfe  all  love  and  fame! 

*  The  reference  is  to  a  ghoul  in  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment. 

*  Then  the  name  of  a  ready-made  clothing  store  in  Boston. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE     619 

—  My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer 
And  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day?" 

—  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  I 
Without  thee,  what  were  life? 

One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind: 
I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife! 

—  The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

"The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  husband  too!" 

—  "And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years!" 

Why,  yes;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all; 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

"Why  this  will  never  do; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too!" 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 

The  household  with  its  noise,  — 
And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke 

To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


READING  LISTS 

[In  general,  the  least  difficult  and  least  bulky  are  listed  first.] 

I.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Works 

1.  Autobiography. 

2.  Poor  Richard's  Sayings. 

3.  Bagatelles  C  The  Whistle,"  "  Proposed  New  Veraon  of  the 

Bible,"  "The  Ephemera,"  etc.). 

Biography 

4.  Morse,  J.  T.,  Jr.,  Benjamin  Franklin. 

5.  Parton,  James,  Benjamin  Franklin.  2  vols. 

Interpretation 

6.  Wendell,  Barrett,  A  Literary  History  of  America. 

7.  More,  P.  E.,  Shdburne  Essays,  Fourth  Series. 

8.  Sainte-Beuve,  C.  A.,  English  Portraits;  or  Causeries  du  Lundi, 

tome  septieme. 

n.  WASHINGTON  IR\TNG 

Works 

1.  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York. 

2.  Sketch  Book: 

"The  Spectre  Bridegroom." 
"The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow." 
"  Stratf  ord-on-Avon. ' ' 
"Little  Britain." 

3.  The  Alhambra. 

Biography 

4.  Pa)me,  W.  M.,  Leading  American  Essayists, 

5.  Warner,  C.  D.,  Washington  Irzing. 

6.  Irving,  P.  M.,  Life  and  Letters  of  Washington  Irving.  4  vols. 

Interpretation 

7.  Trent,  W.  P.,  ^  History  of  American  Literature. 

8.  Thackeray,  W.  M.,  Roundabout  Papers  ("  Nil  Nisi  Bonum"). 

9.  Haweis,  H.  R.,  American  Humorists, 


62  2  READING  LISTS 

III.  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 
Works 


I. 

The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 

2. 

The  Spy. 

3- 

The  Pilot. 

4- 

The  Deerslayer. 

5- 

The  Prairie. 

Biography 

6.  Erskine,  John,  Leading  American  Novelists. 

7.  Lounsbury,  T.  R.,  James  Fenimore  Cooper. 

8.  Phillips,  Mary  E.,  James  Fenimore  Cooper. 

Interpretation 

9.  Mark  Twain,  How  to  Tell  a  Story. 

10.  Howe,  M.  A.  de  W.,  American  Bookmen. 

11.  Brownell,  W.  C,  American  Prose  Masters. 

IV.  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 
Works 

1.  The  following  Tales: 

"The  Gold  Bug." 

*'A  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom." 

"The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue." 

"The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum." 

"The  Black  Cat." 

"Ligeia." 

"The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher." 

"The  Assignation." 

"Eleonora." 

2.  "The  Philosophy  of  Composition." 

Biography 

3.  Woodberry,  G.  E.,  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

4.  Woodberry,  G.  E.,  The  Life  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.   2  vols. 

5.  Harrison,  J.  A.,  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  2  vols. 

6.  Lauvriere,  E.,  Edgar  Poe,  Sa  vie  et  son  oeuvre. 

Interpretation 

7.  Gates,  L.  E.,  Studies  and  Appreciations. 

8.  Trent,  W.  P.,  Longfellow  and  Other  Essays. 

9.  Gosse,  Edmund,  Questions  at  Issue. 

10.  Brownell,  W.  C,  American  Prose  Masters, 


READING  LISTS  623 


V.  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 
Works 

1.  Scarlet  Letter. 

2.  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables, 

3.  The  Blithedale  Romance. 

4.  The  Marble  Faun. 

5.  American  Note-Books. 

6.  Twice-Told  Tales: 

"The  Gentle  Boy." 
"Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment." 
"The  Ambitious  Guest." 
"The  Gray  Champion." 
"The  Minister's  Black  VeU." 
"The  Great  Carbuncle." 
"The  Threefold  Destiny." 

7.  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse: 

"The  Birthmark." 

"Feathertop." 

"The  New  Adam  and  Eve." 

"Egotism;  or,  The  Bosom  Serpent." 

"The  Artist  of  the  Beautiful." 

Biography 

8.  Erskine,  John,  Leading  American  Novelists, 

9.  W^oodberry,  G.  E.,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

10.  James,  Henry,  Jr.,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Interpretation 

11.  Gates,  L.  E.,  Studies  and  Appreciations. 

12.  More,  P.  E.,  Shelburne  Essays,  First  Series. 

13.  More,  P.  E.,  Shelburne  Essays,  Second  Series. 

14.  Stephen,  Leslie,  Hours  in  a  Library,  vol.  i. 

15.  Brownell,  W.  C,  American  Prose  Masters. 


VI.  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 
Works 

I.  Nature,  Addresses,  and  Lectures: 
"Nature." 
"The  Transcendentalist." 


624  READING  LISTS 

2.  Essays,  First  Series: 

"History." 
''Friendship." 
"Prudence." 
"Heroism." 

3.  Essays,  Second  Series: 

"The  Poet." 
"  Character." 
"Manners." 

4.  Representative  Men: 

"Uses  of  Great  Men." 
"Shakespeare." 

5.  English  Traits. 

6.  Society  and  Solitude: 

"Society  and  Solitude." 
"Books." 

7.  Miscellanies: 

"War." 

"Abraham  Lincoln." 

8.  Correspondence  of  Carlyle  and  Emerson.  2  vols. 

Biography 

9.  Payne,  W.  M.,  Leading  American  Essayists. 

10.  Woodberry,  G.  E.,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

11.  Garnett,  Richard,  Life  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

12.  Holmes,  O.  W.,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

13.  Cabot,  J.  E.,  Memoir  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  2  vols. 

14.  Emerson,  E.  W.,  Emerson  in  Concord. 

15.  Firkins,  O.  W.,  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

Interpretation 

16.  Arnold,  Matthew,  Discourses  in  America. 

17.  Chapman,  J.  J.,  Emerson  and  Other  Essays. 

18.  James,  Henry,  Jr.,  Partial  Portraits. 

19.  James,  William,  Memories  and  Studies. 

20.  Francke,  Kuno,  German  Ideals  of  To-Bay. 

21.  Grimm,  F.  H.,  FUnfzehn  Essays,  Erste  Folge. 

22.  Schmidt,  J.,  Neue  Essays. 

23.  Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  Le  tresor  des  humbles. 

24.  Brownell,  W.  C,  American  Prose  Masters. 

25.  Santayana,  George,  Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion. 

26.  Harrison,  J.  S.,  The  Teachers  of  Emerson. 


READING  LISTS  625 

Vn.  HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 
Works 

1.  Walden: 

"Economy." 
"Sounds." 
"The  Bean-Field." 
"The  Village." 
"Higher  Laws." 
"Brute  Neighbors." 

2.  Miscellanies: 

"A  Plea  for  Captain  John  Brown." 

3.  Excursions: 

"Walking." 
"Autumnal  Tints." 
"Wild  Apples." 

4.  Familiar  Letters. 

5.  Maine  Woods. 

6.  Journal,  any  vol. 

Biography 

7.  Payne,  W.  M.,  Leading  American  Essayists. 

8.  Salt,  H.  S.,  Life  of  Henry  David  Thoreau. 

9.  Sanborn,  F.  B.,  Henry  D.  Thoreau. 

Interpretation 

10.  Emerson,  R.  W.,  Lectures  and  Biographical  Sketches. 

11.  Torrey,  Bradford,  "Introduction"  to  the  Journal,  Walden 

Edition. 

12.  Burroughs,  John,  Indoor  Studies. 

13.  Stevenson,  R.  L.,  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books. 

14.  More,  P.  E.,  Shelburne  Essays,  First  Series. 

15.  More,  P.  E.,  Shelburne  Essays,  Fifth  Series, 


Vm.  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Works 

1.  Letters. 

2.  Prose  Works,  Riverside  Edition,  vol.  i: 

"A  Moosehead  Journal." 

"  Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago." 

3.  Prose  Works,  vol.  2: 

"Carlyle." 

"Rousseau  and  the  Sentimentalists." 


626  READING  LISTS 

4.  Prose  Works,  vol.  3 : 

"Dryden." 

"  My  Garden  Acquaintance." 

"On  a  Certain  Condescension  in  Foreigners." 

5.  Prose  Works,  vol.  4: 

"Pope." 
"Milton." 
"Spenser." 
''Wordsworth." 

6.  Prose  Works,  vol.  5: 

"Abraham  Lincoln." 

7.  Prose  Works,  vol.  6: 

"Harvard  Anniversary." 

"The  Place  of  the  Independent  in  Politics." 

Biography 

8.  Greenslet,  Ferris,  James  Russell  Lowell,  His  Life  and  Work. 

9.  Scudder,  H.  E.,  James  Russell  Lowell,  a  Biography.   2  vols. 

10.  Hale,  E.  E.,  Lowell  and  His  Friends. 

11.  Wendell,  Barrett,  Stelligeri. 

Interpretation 

12.  James,  Henry,  Jr.,  Essays  in  London  and  Elsewhere. 

13.  Woodberry,  G.  E.,  Makers  of  Literature. 

14.  Pollak,  G.,  International  Perspective  in  Criticism. 

15.  Reilly,  J.  J.,  Lowell  as  a  Critic. 

16.  Brownell,  W.  C,  American  Prose  Masters. 

IX.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 
Works 

1.  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table. 

2.  Elsie  Venner. 

Biography 

3.  Morse,  J.  T.,  Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  2  vols. 

4.  Higginson,  T.  W.,  Old  Cambridge. 

5.  Howells,  W.  D.,  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintance. 

Interpretation 

6.  Crothers,  S.  M.,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  the  Autocrat  and  his 

Fellow  Boarders. 

7.  Lang,  Andrew,  Adventures  among  Books. 

8.  Stephen,  Leslie,  Studies  of  a  Biographer,  vol.  2. 


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